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- Denis Giles
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A writer struggling to call himself a writer
By- Sarpreet Kaur
My mind was wide awake but my forever heavy eyes refused to open. They wanted to enjoy the deep slumber for a few more minutes. I was still in the middle of lamenting when the sun’s rays tapped on the window shield of my soul. Controlling my urge to backtalk the sun, I yawned and started my day with a swoosh sound of email on the phone. The mail was from a leading magazine where I had submitted my article. My heart leapt at the prospect of being published and then quickly sank when he read the rejection mail. Nowadays they have a unique way of rejecting you- “After careful consideration, we have decided against publishing this submission”. These smart publishing platforms always keep a ray of hope hanging, which you can later use as a support to climb up or mostly as a nook to hang the writer aspiring inside you.
Read more: An Aspiring Writer- Mostly Rejected Hardly Accepted
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- Denis Giles
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A couple of years ago while traveling in scenic Austria, I got down from the car and sat by the side of a mountain besides a flowing brook. It was restful and peaceful and I was nearly lulled to sleep by the sound of the water. In a while I lowered my feet into the passing stream.
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- Denis Giles
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“Dad!’ asked my younger one, “Should we buy a Christmas tree?”
“No,” I said, “There’s some in the garden, have a look at them!”
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- Denis Giles
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There was once a time not too long ago when the living room of a home reflected the kind of people living it; not how much money they possessed but how much warmth existed within. You could sink into inviting easy chair and be sure moments later your host would be as informal, easy going and comfortable as the chair you were lounging in. Then there were houses with stuffy furniture, over stuffed sofas with protruding lumps that poked deep into your back as if telling you were already on borrowed time.
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- Denis Giles
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The old wizened lady, sat with a copy of the newspaper in her wrinkled hands and studied the obituary columns intently. “He, he, he,” she suddenly giggled to herself, “she’s dead, she’s dead. Oh, thank you, Lord, you’ve done it again!”
“Who is it mom?” shouted a voice from inside the house as her daughter came running and stood by her mother.