Rory Langmuir
Bio
I’m 22, I live in London, and I’m currently working at a restaurant (trying to conjure up as much money as I can in order to fund the short films I make!). I’ve always loved all forms of writing.
Stories (7/0)
Tom
Dear Tom, I’m sitting on top of this mountain, holding this rock, because it reminds me of you. How fitting. You, who would never do something so ridiculous as to give meaning to a pile of rocks. And yet, I felt your laugh on the way up. A south-easterly wind, filled with hail, pushing against me, telling me that now wasn’t the time. That I was being indulgent. But I continued to indulge, and now I find myself at the precipice of our world, teetering over the edge and staring into oblivion. Maybe you‘re right. Maybe I’m not ready.
By Rory Langmuirabout a year ago in Poets
The Living Room Café
The TV seems nervous about the war. But I’ve never been a big fan of the news and I’d rather just try to enjoy my coffee, without all these impending thoughts of doom, seeping through my skull like deep heat and making me depressed. I need to write. But there’s nothing to write about. I’m so far removed from that cold frontline, (somewhere east of the sun) that landscape of scattered holes, packed with the frozen bodies that, only a few months earlier, had looked up at planes in the sky and felt stifling fear - their last moments, unable to breathe or move, huddled with the crowds of faceless people, wishing they were home – from above, the pilot looks down at that thin slice of life, the curves and swerves of the thriving, occupied world, he must now doom to fire and waste, but he’s just doing his job, he thinks, much like the people sitting in this café, (surrounding me like a weighted blanket) ‘I wonder what’s for dinner tonight?’
By Rory Langmuirabout a year ago in Fiction
Sand castle
A sand castle melts On Atacaman wind to Blanket the desert
By Rory Langmuirabout a year ago in Poets
