A Serial Killer's Motto "I just removed all the pieces that didn't look like him." On the Statues Populating the Streets of Melbourne Dystopia Littered amongst the rats The faces of the dead still grin. Eternal in their power Trapped by the medusa’s sin.
In dystopia they stand Neither of the living, nor the dead. Encased in a skin of earth, To be remembered why they bled.
Trust me to turn a writing piece about statues into something dark and depressing. Still, relatively proud of this work.
Description of the Maps We DrewHauntedAs I stand in the centre of town, the wind whipping my air and stinging my eyes, I begin the long trek, my silent goodbyes lost upon all who once cared for me. My feet slowly begin to move, as though with a mind of their own, and I take my first steps forward, toward the sun setting sun in the far west. This quiet, once bustling and full of life, shies away from me, the scar upon my face a constant warning to all who see me. The town hall ceases its small amount of activity, as watchful eyes fill the huge windows. I turn my head from this awful sight, a sight that spoke to me better than anything else could, and hung my head, the sounds and smells of drunken revelry clogging my senses, invoking an almost sick feeling in my stomach: of longing and disgust. The friends I once had now ignore me – not forgetting. The infamous are never forgotten. The corner of my mouth twitches into a slight wry smile as I look upon my old livelihood. The small farmer’s produce market, once dominated by cheeses, wines and meats of every variety from my farmholds, now stands empty, cordoned off from the public for investigation. No formal charges would be pressed, this much I know, but that doesn’t change the facts of what I had done. Derek from the newsagent’s looked at me with disgust through his poster-covered windows, not even the brewing sandstorm enough to obscure his look of pure hatred. Derek’s eyes never left me, even as I passed the bakery which was closed for the day, as were so many others for the time mourning. Days after it closed the smell of bread and pastries still assaulted my nostrils, as it had for so many years before. I felt a tear in my eye which had nothing to do with the wind, as I felt the blood of the tiny young girl upon my hands again. The memory of her golden blonde hair, so like the pastries her mother made, stained crimson as the life bled from her, still haunted my every step.
As if Dystopia wasn't depressing enough. Didn't realise I could be so dark.
Story Written in Five Minutes, with Random Words Chucked in the Mix Other Side of the Moon “Stop!” she shouted at the taxi driving past, fervently hoping the driver wasn’t deaf. Or blind for that matter, she thought to herself. I mean, who wouldn’t rather a deaf taxi driver than a blind one? Unfortunately, the taxi just kept driving, the small child in the back throwing a cabbage at the young woman, as this was the customary greeting to strangers in the town of Inklebury in winter. The sun set early at such times, and the young woman felt her fear rising as darkness begun to cast its thick and mysterious blanket over the world. Setting off for the nearest hotel at a run, Danny – for such was the woman’s name – sprinted down the street, hoping that she had not arrived in the industrial district of town. If this was the case, she knew perfectly well that she would have no luck with finding a hotel, even if she did have a bicycle. As the sun set, the world turned black. Danny looked towards the moon. It was full once again. Her fears were confirmed as the beast inside began to stir. The changes were coming again.
What on earth was this? Bit of fun, came out even stranger than I expected. I mean seriously, how on earth did I get to werewolves?
Blackout Poems The Story Shifting beneath the light The blood of all is dark, Bubbling and boiling: Our future seems so stark.
Cracked mirrors and broken reflections Will be all to tell Those who come after us The story of how we fell.
Turned out very rhythmical this one, going to look at turning this into a full song. Again dark and about human nature. I am touching upon the idea that we are killing our world.
A Serial Killer's Motto
"I just removed all the pieces that didn't look like him."
On the Statues Populating the Streets of Melbourne
Dystopia
Littered amongst the rats
The faces of the dead still grin.
Eternal in their power
Trapped by the medusa’s sin.
In dystopia they stand
Neither of the living, nor the dead.
Encased in a skin of earth,
To be remembered why they bled.
Trust me to turn a writing piece about statues into something dark and depressing. Still, relatively proud of this work.
Description of the Maps We DrewHauntedAs I stand in the centre of town, the wind whipping my air and stinging my eyes, I begin the long trek, my silent goodbyes lost upon all who once cared for me. My feet slowly begin to move, as though with a mind of their own, and I take my first steps forward, toward the sun setting sun in the far west. This quiet, once bustling and full of life, shies away from me, the scar upon my face a constant warning to all who see me. The town hall ceases its small amount of activity, as watchful eyes fill the huge windows.
I turn my head from this awful sight, a sight that spoke to me better than anything else could, and hung my head, the sounds and smells of drunken revelry clogging my senses, invoking an almost sick feeling in my stomach: of longing and disgust. The friends I once had now ignore me – not forgetting. The infamous are never forgotten.
The corner of my mouth twitches into a slight wry smile as I look upon my old livelihood. The small farmer’s produce market, once dominated by cheeses, wines and meats of every variety from my farmholds, now stands empty, cordoned off from the public for investigation. No formal charges would be pressed, this much I know, but that doesn’t change the facts of what I had done. Derek from the newsagent’s looked at me with disgust through his poster-covered windows, not even the brewing sandstorm enough to obscure his look of pure hatred.
Derek’s eyes never left me, even as I passed the bakery which was closed for the day, as were so many others for the time mourning. Days after it closed the smell of bread and pastries still assaulted my nostrils, as it had for so many years before. I felt a tear in my eye which had nothing to do with the wind, as I felt the blood of the tiny young girl upon my hands again. The memory of her golden blonde hair, so like the pastries her mother made, stained crimson as the life bled from her, still haunted my every step.
As if Dystopia wasn't depressing enough. Didn't realise I could be so dark.
Story Written in Five Minutes, with Random Words Chucked in the Mix
Other Side of the Moon
“Stop!” she shouted at the taxi driving past, fervently hoping the driver wasn’t deaf. Or blind for that matter, she thought to herself. I mean, who wouldn’t rather a deaf taxi driver than a blind one?
Unfortunately, the taxi just kept driving, the small child in the back throwing a cabbage at the young woman, as this was the customary greeting to strangers in the town of Inklebury in winter.
The sun set early at such times, and the young woman felt her fear rising as darkness begun to cast its thick and mysterious blanket over the world. Setting off for the nearest hotel at a run, Danny – for such was the woman’s name – sprinted down the street, hoping that she had not arrived in the industrial district of town. If this was the case, she knew perfectly well that she would have no luck with finding a hotel, even if she did have a bicycle.
As the sun set, the world turned black. Danny looked towards the moon. It was full once again. Her fears were confirmed as the beast inside began to stir.
The changes were coming again.
What on earth was this? Bit of fun, came out even stranger than I expected. I mean seriously, how on earth did I get to werewolves?
Blackout Poems
The Story
Shifting beneath the light
The blood of all is dark,
Bubbling and boiling:
Our future seems so stark.
Cracked mirrors and broken reflections
Will be all to tell
Those who come after us
The story of how we fell.
Turned out very rhythmical this one, going to look at turning this into a full song. Again dark and about human nature. I am touching upon the idea that we are killing our world.