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watch Dirilis Ertugrul with English and Urdu subtitles
https://youtu.be/rIhcTw4dONs

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what number 40 says?!!
https://youtu.be/DTNi_AQzSek

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Writers tips, short stories, poetry, exercises, market news, query letters, book reviews and more: free subscription! http://thepagereader.com
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What do you do with those passages that just don't work in your current piece - but you just love them? The great killer sentence, but no place for it? Stimulating dialog but your character wouldn't say it? Some valuable tips on what to do, besides killing the darlings. 

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The state of nothing is always the best state for a musician to create. When you feel almost like a shadow to something or someone else you could have been; I doubt anything keeps someone striving as much as the need, the raw and unrelenting need to be, to simply breathe steadily. When you feel like nothing and nothing is ever there to see you for what you are, you look for a way for that nothing to turn into something and, hopefully, someone.

That is why right now at 4am musicians are writing and scribbling out lines, singing endless motifs and broken melodies that will somehow form a song, hopefully, one day... but will they ever be recognized for it? Do they even care?

You are somehow fighting, still trying to work out if there was ever anything wrong with you, or if the moments and seconds of pain or euphoria were simply always driving you to this moment, right here and right now; to be doing exactly what you are doing, or trying to do.

It almost feels too late, that you had your chance and you ruined it by simply being who you thought the others wanted you to be but you realized that they didn't even like that side of you much, so you wonder what this thing molded by 80% water really is and you ask, 'was anyone's advice even right?' So you keep scribbling and writing and singing and worrying, constantly worrying if whatever you are doing will ever be enough; not even for some small recognition, but for you. Will any of it be enough for you?

So that's why they write, that's why they sing, that's why they have nothing but their voices because nobody, not even the strongest soul, can hold onto a person that believes that they are merely a shadow; a shadow that may be behind you now, but will eventually catch up to you and you will say 'how are you, it's been a while', and they will smile and nod and be the way you'd expect them to be, while secretly they are dreaming of a melody they never quite finished, last night at 4am.

Then you will run ahead, to be on time for something more important to you and they will turn back into that shadow, crying out to no one because they are what forgotten looks like.

This state of nothing is what leads us all to create.

- Maddy Wilde© -
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Mother's Love

Carol sniffed the pink paper envelope as if smelling the summer aroma of an English rose. She could still smell her mother's distinctive Parisian perfume; it was so intoxicating Carol's head began to spin. 
Carol sat herself down in her Mother's favourite Chair, trying to regain her senses. Some moments later, feeling less anxious she started to read her Mother's letter, which she had, wrote only hours before she died from a sudden violent heart attack. The sudden loss for Carol was vast and tragic. Carol was an only child, without a father, who had died when she was just seven years old.
The envelope was addressed: 
“To Carol, my Beloved daughter and only child Love .....Mother"
Carol noted that the blue ink was runny and stained in places on the envelope as if her mother had been crying, the stains being her tears. Her mother's writing was normally so beautifully joined up and neat. Carol's big grey eyes began to glaze over with hot tears before she had read pass the first line of text. 
Slowly Carol noticed her small hands were shaking, and her breathing became faster and deeper .Her small petite body started to shiver with a rippling wave pushing itself though her. But it was her surprisingly high pitched voice that was most disturbing and began resonating throughout the house and into the night's full Moon sky like a wolf howling. 
Carol wept uncontrollably in absolute despair.
Suddenly the bedroom door slowly opened as if by magic, Carol was now really frightened, until  she realised it was Jack, her three year old son, crawling into the bedroom searching for his mother ."Mummy! Mummy!" called out Jack. Carol sighed with relief, and then a second wave of life long suppressed emotions rippled over her, as she read the final paragraph of the letter. Carol was now over -whelmed by the sight of her beloved infant son, she burst into tears once again. 
She ran towards Jack and scooped him up into her loving arms, unable to stop herself crying. Jack joined his mother in this tearful reunion, both holding on with such love for each other, both bringing comfort to each other. Mother and son symbolised at that precise moment the connective power of Unconditional maternal love. An energy that lives after mortal life has expired. This was a message Carol felt that her mother was showing her  now, at this precise moment, even after  her death, Carol was sufficiently  awake to recognise this important lesson that required no written letter, no words, and that one day her son Jack would pass on to his children  unconditional love .
 The End

Vincent Borg Copyright 2015
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Check out my newest poem; I think all writers can relate to the subject matter ;-)

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Please have a look and share your view :)

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