Ladies and gentlemen... the WrongPlanet writing showcase

Post Reply New Topic

Chimera


Suicide is homicide, society's killing off the mentally wounded.
Indiscretion personified proposals,
Left in midwake by mistake, my moment to show off has past.
Concentrating eyes dividing,
Pithy thematics entertaining webmodistry of sight lacking affection,
Destroying luminosity.
Leviathian gaze turning blighted eyes
From the carnage, consuming anhillation,
My soul - matron of death, enveloping the world
In a loneliness inescapable and most foul.
It ends here, this was no accident.
You've angered me, I can't deny your death is imminent.
Because I've morphed from every source to now become this monster,
4 heads, 6 feet, 3 tails, 36 teeth, rendering you incapable of speech.
And now I hear you want to live vicariously through me?
8 eyes that stare you down and say you're lying, b!tch, please..
Just try and extract me...
Rage spit back into the face of the unclaimed,
I stand for every faceless street urchin no name, you will pay.
I'll give holy birth to catastrophe, and rub your face in it down deep.
Bet you can't erase me
I tell you now this was no accident.

The Price of a Stalker

Walking out towards your window
The blinds shroud the view
I peer through a crack of light
You unaware of my presence
Shocked at the sight of you and her
In and out, in and out
She moans in pleasure
My heart stops beating
My eyes swell with tears
Crashing to the floor
A dream once so alive
Burned to ashes

Heres a revised version of what I put up before:

Losing Myself

I'll never break free
From what confides me
I can barely see
What’s in front of me
Life can be so hard
Living in the shadows of the dark
I can barely believe
What has happen to me
I got to find a way
To keep myself together
To stop myself from falling
Just give me that one place
Where I can finally be myself
Once I come out of hiding
I can show you what you've never seen before
I never believed what they said
When they told me the news
They thought I'd never come back
Because I was far from saving
Help!
They're locking me in handcuffs
And taking me far away
To a place deemed of sub humanity

Beyond the shadows, swept away
The forgotten ones survive
While favoured few begrudge the day,
Some sigh to be alive.
Wand'ring concrete causeways cold,
Their homes a whispered dream
The missing ones can see society's split at the seams
To one side are the favoured,
Who may never see luck fall,
But they also never notice those who haven't got .... all.
Damned, forgotten, demonised, we soldier on each day
And grow much stronger, swallowing
the .... that comes our way
But the favoured ones are unaware
Blessing blinds them verily
It's not a fact that they don't care
They simply fail to see
So come together, forgotten ones
United, we have choice
Cos together we have dignity,
and a deafening loud voice.
Let's march into the stadiums
Let's make a good loud roar
Forgotten no longer, recognised, impossible to ignore.

by Paul (aka Lucky Bunny)

Wrote this a couple years ago. It is still unfinished though:

"This is our house,"
A moon-faced child said
"You can no longer stay.
You can no longer see..."

I have seen.
I have given them the key, already.
The damp stench of rotting angels and insects
curls up my leg, down my throat---
They will never let me forget.

I got a room. A room with a door, a window,
Painted scenery. Black birds on the balcony.

I do not dare look out the hallway
For I fear what I've created
I will walk with my head down, counting the tiles,
the blood stains and the egg shells
Until I feel the janitor's breath.

The door opens and my eyes close.
He tells me I won't fit into such a tiny door.

Summer blue sky
plane flying above
white smoke trailing

Neville's Phobia

An Asperger-related, partly semi-autobiographical story.

There was a boy called Neville who, it was found from very early on in his life, had developed a phobia of certain text or letters in certain contexts.

At the age of around five, Neville innocently and unknowingly told his mother about text he had seen in a dictionary. Neville had Asperger Syndrome, not picked up on or diagnosed until he was 31, but that is another story. For now, Neville’s Asperger’s helped give him an unusual interest in factual, list-like books such as dictionaries , and Neville spent a lot of time at this early age looking at dictionaries, definitions and so on.

His unusual phobias were first noticed when he found the character ‘&’ on a page and was startled by the way it was written. This was probably because it was printed in a way that was unusual compared to the ampersands he had seen, we don’t know for sure, but in genuine shock this is what Neville went to his mother with.

This caused a hard time for Neville when his mother left dictionaries open around the house at the entry for ‘ampersand’, just a prank but it frightened the boy.

Neville was very interested in words, patterns in language, foreign languages and linguistics, all from a young age. He was an intellectually precocious boy which was obvious to education staff, for example. But, in finding patterns in other languages, there were items which continued the theme of incongruities compared to previously-learned rules. This, in turn, was startling for Neville when they were found.

When Neville investigated foreign languages, some examples of this were the use of the letter Q in foreign languages and place names. He was startled when teaching himself French and finding words which are in common use in that language such as ‘cinq’ and ‘coq’, where the placement of the letter Q violated previously known English language rules. Perhaps – again we don’t know for certain – this upset the boy’s need for order and predictability in a way that genuinely felt nasty for Neville. There was also a sense of shock from placenames such as those from Arabic or Hebrew (Neville also had a special interest in geography and maps) where Q did not necessarily have to be followed by U, and usually wasn’t; and finding the Icelandic letter Þ in placenames which he hadn’t seen anything of the like before. Neville did not quite know what to make of this.

Later on dawned the Internet age and Neville became highly focused on the Internet and e-mail as an interest. It was fascinating being able to contact and have immediate conversations with people from all over the world on this new-fangled technology. It was, in a way, just like interaction face-to-face, just that the other person could be on the other side of the world. It was absolutely addictive.

But the way people communicated online, on this fast, instant form of communication, caused another textual kind of issue for Neville. Neville had an eye and an instinct for correct and proper language, honed from a very early age. He could not understand why people, including those who were apparently smart and well-educated, could not use capitals or punctuation.

He saw this would even happen when people typed proper names and even their own name. When Neville received e-mails from some people, the ‘From’ in the e-mail was often entirely in lower case. This is because they had signed up for e-mail addresses as such when giving their name. This just flabbergasted Neville because it, too, violated a very basic rule that proper names should start with capitals. And such a basic rule being out of kilter added to some of Neville’s phobia.

The ensuing years of contacting people online were socially unproductive for Neville. It was easier for him to chat over the Internet than face to face. He was then diagnosed with Asperger’s, which conferred him a lot of benefits. It brought him out of himself, gave him all the self-awareness that was lacking, and opened up a lot of social doors in his local area rather than on a computer screen.

Eventually, through an autism event, Neville met a young lady called kathryn. (I spelled this with a lower case ‘k’ because she was one of those people who couldn’t capitalize her name when setting up her e-mail.) Kathryn did not have autism herself, but was interested in autism and people with autism. Neville’s intellectual capabilities such as his memory and prowess in Scrabble fascinated many people throughout his life and Kathryn was no exception.

A relationship then developed, and when Neville first got an e-mail from Kathryn he discovered she was one of the people with a lower-case name. This was a mighty shock for Neville. The shock felt like his head was smacked by a baseball bat, especially as Kathryn was so educated, intelligent and articulate yet couldn’t type her name with an initial capital.

Neville struggled for some time with the question of why this was. Why was there such an inconsistency here? He was dying to ask Kathryn why, but was bashful about it for a long time. Surely it would have seemed a ridiculous question.

But eventually Neville couldn’t take it any more and so brought himself to ask.

“Kathy?”

“Yes sweetheart?”

“There’s something I wanted to ask for some time. It’s bugged me for some time. Shall I tell you what it is?”

“You know you can ask me anything.”

Neville’s heart was beating twenty to the dozen, and he was blushing. He was really bricking himself because he now had to ask the question. He blurted out:

“How come some people are so well-educated but can’t even type their names properly with correct capitalisation?”
“What do you mean?”

“I mean... you’re one of the people I’ve noticed this with. See these e-mails, your name’s all lower case.”

“Some people have such a good memory and they’re really intelligent but can’t even handle banter like anyone else.”

This comment of Kathryn’s left Neville a little dumbstruck. You should have seen his face. It was uncomfortable for him being exposed for what he was, someone who had trouble with how to respond to banter. He found banter particularly difficult and was at a loss to know what to do. Yet it was so essential to social interaction in general.

It wasn’t a problem for Kathryn as she was very socially skilled and socially intuitive. She then added, on the other hand, “I wasn’t that computer literate at the time I set my e-mail up. I’m still not.”

Once Neville, as usual, took days if not weeks to process Kathryn’s replies in his mind, he was helped somewhat in his struggle for comprehension. He had to realise that people had different skillsets, different levels of ability in different things. And Neville, comparing his intellectual and social skills, had a more lopsided skillset than virtually all of the population.

Realising this helped Neville to get over much of his textual phobia. And even some of the social phobia. Seeing as how it was so difficult to ask Kathryn the question above, it was by comparison a piece of cake to propose to her.

Marriage had its ups and downs, of course, but it might not have been possible without the process of understanding described above.

Something I've been working on. Still rough. All the ideas were originally concieved and any resemblance to other works is purely coincidental.

Chapter 01

The thunder of steel-shod hooves striking the dirt road was the only real sound in the crisp morning air with only the soft lowing of cows to provide a distraction to the two-score strong throng of mounted men and women. Upon each of their shields which caught the sunlight at every turn was a sigil embossed into the steel. Each was different in color but the same in design. A few silver and a few gold with a smattering of black and emerald. Engraved into each though and in colors that would off-set the natural color was a sword and arrow crossed in the middle.

The coat of arms for the Dominion Of Man. Specifically that of the northern city-state Maeverix.

Far along the road and beyond even the gaze of any bird laid a village which was just shedding the warm fog of sleep to embrace the harsh chill of day juxtaposed by the blazing heat of the sun. Already their moon which hung in the sky like a purple droplet of water was setting and as if connected by rope or string it tugged the blazing sun up in the opposite direction.

The sky was turning orange with hues of pink and red scattered about. The same color of the sweets which the travelling merchants sold for a single Deesk, the standard currency which had the image of either ruler embossed onto a surface.

The actual material that the image was embossed upon gave the Deesk its value. Ordinary quarried stone like sandstone being the most common and going all the way up to platinum which often equated to six months worth of wages in the communities scattered across the four main continents.

Already the fields were filling with children as young as seven and adults already approaching their elder years in preparation for the harvest. And whilst the men were proceeding into the fields with scythes to carve crop from earth and hopefully not head from neck the women were preparing the multitude of wagons to take the expected excess to the next town.

There was one though…one young girl who slumbered on in defiance of the rising sun and chatter of voices. The only thing visible of her due to the thick blanket covering her was the odd locks of hair which seemed to act as a blanket for her face. Or a curtain if one considers she continued to sleep with the sun glaring in impudently.

“Vaeli! Wake up! Even if its your Origin Day, you need to help!” a voice called from outside her room.

The now-named young girl cracked open one eye just enough to shoot a glare at the woman standing in the doorway before the eye closed and the blanket was tugged up further to partially obscure her red and white hair. The main body of the hair was a thick crimson and when the half-day sun struck it the hair turned from plain red to a corona of fire which left both boys and men staring in awe.

Other girls just usually stared in jealousy. Most of them had the standard blonde hair of varying shades with a few brunettes mixed in. But Vaeli was the only red-head in the village and by far the only one with hair that beautiful.

“Vaeli…up!”

Grumbling and opening both eyes to reveal hazel eyes which tried so desperately to convey irritation, Vaeli was forced to her feet with a shriek when the blanket was torn from her and the cold morning air struck at her bare limbs in a manner akin to a thousand needles prodding her.

“Hey!” Vaeli pouted and rubbed her arms to try and imitate the heat which had oh-so-amazingly cradled her earlier.

“Vaeli False-Flame! How dare you be so lazy on Carving Day!” Ecielle scolded and threw the blanket to the floor yet replaced the blanket she had once had such a tight grip upon with Vaeli’s slim wrist. “There’s no time to clean up, just get to Nexus and take your post!” she stated. Grabbing a loose robe which signified Vaeli as one of the more intelligent members of the village, Ecielle hurriedly evacuated Vaeli from the house.

Muttering about annoying women that couldn’t let her sleep in even on her Origin Day with the thump of her heel striking the door punctuating the annoyed sentiments, Vaeli quickly wriggled her way into the robe.

A plain thing for the most part, it was by far more comfortable than the rough clothes that most of the men had to wear in the fields. Woven from Skyfern leaves, it was perhaps the single most expensive item of clothing in the house with the exception of the Joining Dress her ‘mother’ owned.

Skyfern’s were a floating plant found in the southern reaches. An odd plant that seemed to suck moisture from the air around it, the leaves which kept it floating and constituted a prized commodity in the villages were actually thread-like extracts from the branches. Whilst it was not as strong or soft as Fireroot which could only be afforded by those living in the main cities, Skyfern Leaves were still considered to be a luxury item.

Making her way down the shoddily-paved village road and towards the Nexus, Vaeli wrinkled her nose at the smell emanating from both the brewery and the kitchens. But to be fair, the smell of fermented Corpse-Weed being brewed did not go well with the cloying stench of entire cows being roasted over an open spit after being marinated in their own blood.

Suppressing a yawn as she crossed paths with the villages Anti-Dischordia Priest, Vaeli nodded respectfully to the older man.

Dischordia was the energy that a few could weave to whatever ends they wished though in the centuries since the Time of Mist had ended those had grown fewer and fewer. But as the legends grew and facts dimmed so did the Dominion gain strength with its teachings about how Dischordia was a malevolent force that sought the ruin of all that they had managed upon the planet.

Biting her tongue to keep another yawn down whilst extending her arms above her head into a stretch, Vaeli momentarily cursed the dreams she had been having for the last week or so. Indeed, they had started exactly a week ago that night when the moon was at Full Rise.

They had been…indistinct at first with only the vaguest shapes appearing from the shadows of sleep. But as the days had passed so the dreams had gained in clarity with the dream from the previous night being the most vivid.

Six different gouts of flame had exploded into being thought their sources was a matter best left to those concerned with such trivialities. Even from where she was standing the heat slammed into her with all the subtlety of a hammer striking a finger. Such heat that it wouldn’t have surprised Vaeli that in the moments between the heat had struck her and the time she had glanced down if all the flesh had been torn from her frame and with the bones scorched black.

But her body was fine and the Skyfern Robe she wore was just fluttering in the back-draft the flames produced. Oddly…they had stopped spiraling upwards and now they were imitating a vortex. With the curiosity she was often remonstrated for gripping her mind, Vaeli stepped forward and as the distance between her and the vortex closed so did it stop spinning until she stood not a foot from it and with the pillar of ruby fire blazing before her which seemed to spike into the heavens from her vantage point.

Reaching out cautiously to the raging beam of fire with a hand, it was surprising in that she felt no surprise as a claw was extruded from the pillar and met her hand halfway. Engulfing her hand in a searing grip, her eyes darted down to stare in undisguised shock as her skin seemed to change from her hand upwards. Turning from light pink skin with a hint of red from sunburn…into ruby-red scales.

And then she had been woken up. Rather rudely too. Glancing down and sighing at the sight of her feet once more without shoes, Vaeli entered the Nexus and quickly took up her post as the secondary counter.

Her job was to double-check the figures that the primary counter jotted down. Thus far she had already earned the ire of the primary counter on no less than two previous Carving Days.

Is it my fault I can add large figures so easily?

But Vaeli also knew it wasn’t just her intelligence that earned the ire of quite a few there. It was also that she never grew cold or uncomfortable and was therefore far more proficient than the others. When asked about it and asked she was, Vaeli could give no rational explanation and nobody had yet accused her of using Dischordia to do it.

But the way their eyes followed her definitely suggested wariness and she had seen the Priest lurking around and holding that crystal of his which would warm if Dischordia was present within a radius of twenty feet.

Going over the numbers, Vaeli prepared herself for a long and boring day to come.

She was not disappointed.

====

The sun was high in the sky before Vaeli took her first break. Bending backwards to stretch her back which had been cramping due to leaning over her small table, she glanced around at a few of the stalls before zeroing on the sweet stall. Like all children her age and even adults of the village, Vaeli adored the sugary treats.

Much to the dismay of her parents who forked out a small fortune each year. But given that the money they raised her with wasn’t their own…they couldn’t exactly complain.

Touching the small pouch attached to the sash which cinched the garment around her waist to give the illusion of the hourglass shape so favored by women, she guessed that there were eight Deesk’s within the pouch.

More than enough was her gleeful thought.

Approaching the shop and smiling at the old man which manned it, a slight giggle escaped her at the sight of him. With his grayish-black beard in odd twists from syrup and countless smudges from the other substances he worked with turning a once-clean outfit into one that looked more at home in the gutters, he was by far an odd sight.

“Good half-rise, Vaeli!” he exclaimed as the mop of red and white hair caught his attention. And of course he would know her name, what with her being one of his best and most frequent customers.

Grumbling to herself as all the children including herself were forced into a line, the young red-head watched in despair as her favorite treat; Fire pops, were snapped up.

Fire Pops were cleverly created pieces of candy. When they broke, the consumer would belch out a fireball. And current Vaeli had the village record…and the current mayor’s ire.

I didn’t mean to set the well on fire was her ardent defense. Had been extremely fun though to belch out a three foot plume of fire though!

Eventually arriving at the front and pouting at the empty tray which only had a few shards left, Vaeli turned to the other trays and eyed the other treats speculatively. “I’ll take ten sweet-root then” she stated although her tone was more akin to a whine than anything else. As if she was hoping the man would pull out a tray reserved just for her.

But given the way he calmly took her Deesk’s and slid them into the money-box at his feet…no such luck. Biting off the end of one of the sweet-root, Vaeli eyed it. About eight inches long and looking exactly like a tree-root, it was at first glance a quite unappetizing treat.

But when you had your first taste, you were irrevocably hooked. With a soft tangy filling surrounded by crushed sweet-bread which crunched oh-so-splendidly, it was then hardened into bizarre shapes before finally being dipped in Swevield Extract.

Swevield was a narcotic plant for the most part with the tips often smoked by the rich and influential. But the actual core of the plant contained a large amount of natural sugars. When properly extracted and taken care of, it produced Swevield Extract, a highly tasty substance colored brown. Most just called it Swevield.

Glancing away from her large hoard of sweet-root as the sound of hooves striking the earth made itself known, Vaeli blinked at the sight of forty men upon black steeds entering the Nexus. Whilst most of them looked like standard militia, their shields shone in the sunlight and momentarily blinded quite a few.

Not Vaeli…her eyes were locked upon the centre of the shields. Upon the odd sources of varied color which blazed with their own unnatural light.

Dragon scales. Applied to any clothing, armor or weapon and they granted a fair degree of fire immunity.

The great flights that dominated stories and legends had been somehow wiped out as the Age of Man descended like a vulture, picking up the remnants of what had been left behind. Dragon scales were in fact quite a common treasure given that they didn’t decay and could only be destroyed by the fyre of another dragon. There had been some thought on making armor out of it but no smith was able to pierce the scales.

“Citizens of North Deep-Forest! We have come on orders from the Prime Empress Lady Desteine Sanguis!” Every voice of the squad spoke in perfect synchronicity.

The village was known as North Deep-Forest for the very simple reason that they lived on the borders of a once-massive forest with three other villages around the circumference. Or rather they had lived on the borders before the forest was cleared away for lumber and due to suspicion it held those who used the forces of Dischordia. The forest had indeed sheltered them – quite a few as the mass-grave had shown.

“Oooh, sweet-root!” a clearly feminine voice shouted and almost immediately a brown-haired women all but leapt from her steed to the vendor who was eying the militia warily.

“Damn it Kayori!” the leader shouted.

Wincing at the reprimand and blushing even as Deesk’s left her hand and sweet-root filled the other, the now-named shoulder made her way back in an attempt to blend in with the others. The occasional snaps of the sweet-root breaking between teeth seemed to make any such an attempt a joke.

Eying the chuckling civilians, the squad leaders gaze seemed to pass right over Vaeli without seeing her although whether it was because she was young and thus deemed non-threatening, the fact she was short or a myriad or other reasons. “Citizens of North Deep-Forest! Her majesty Destine has ordered a census of all children. For the rest of Carving Day we will be speaking with parents. Please ignore us” he ordered and lifted a hand to display the Signet of Command, a ring granted to any of Destine’s commanders so as to make the people obey.

Vaeli warily eyed the people. Something about them made her want to run home and dive under her blanket until they left. However, since it seemed they would be going to every house that would quite likely be a very stupid thing.

Making her gradual way back to her post after taking her own freely-given Limear drink, the young flaming haired girl savored the bitter taste which made an odd but still enjoyable addition to the sweet-root. Sitting and watching the soldiers walk around and talking to people, Vaeli was able to suppress the gut-churning worry that was trying its best to rip its way free to light and air.

====

Kayori politely knocked upon the wooden door and smiled to herself at the sound and smell of cooking coming from within. Carving Day was a massive event the world over and often stretched into a week-long celebration which included alcohol, gorging on food and often enough sex to work off all the fat they otherwise would have put on. Kayori being seventeen hadn’t officially been in a Carving Day celebration.

Unofficially…she had started at fifteen. Some would be horrified to know and others – like her squad for example – would hoot and holler whilst asking if they could be first during Carving Day. But this rural community had none of the debauchery so common to the main cities and it certainly seemed as if they would take more pleasure in just bringing a harvest in than the week-long descent into sin.

Turning to gaze into the fields, Kayori easily spied the farmers and unconsciously licked her lips.

Probably more stamina than those city boys.

“You’d better not be eying my husband. Soldier or not, you still have six liters of blood and quite a few ways to spill it.”

Spinning as the amused yet edged voice reached her, Kayori blinked at the sight of a woman standing there with the door open and a large knife held casually in her hands. “I…I don’t know what you mean ma’am!” Kayori replied whilst straightening up.

“Yeah, sure. And I have a dragon-scale night-wear. I know what goes on in the cities” Ecielle shrewdly stated and jabbed the knife at Kayori. “May as well come in and do what you need to do. Plus I can kill you easier if you start eying my man again.”

Blinking at the decidedly odd woman, Kayori straightened herself up once again and strode in behind the woman. “Ma’am, I’m here as part of a task force. We’re collecting data on the amount of children and their births to see if there’s any chance of plague.” Kayori watched the woman closely and was rewarded by a slight pause. But it was enough. In the Training Fields they were taught to read an opponent and by the way the woman paused and glanced at her…Kayori knew the woman was hiding something.

“You don’t say?” Ecielle replied whilst taking the sweet-bread laden tray out of the rustic oven and placing it on the stone kitchen-top.

“I do say, ma’am. How many children do you have?” Kayori inquired,

“Just one. Her name’s Vaeli False-Flame on account of her red hair. Nine years old today” Ecielle responded.

Now alarm bells were blaring in Kayori’s mind. Very few commoners spoke THIS well and the signs were starting to appear.

“You don’t say…” Kayori trailed off and scribbled the information in the ledger she had “borrowed” from one of the others.

Maybe next time that pathetic excuse for what ran down his mother’s leg will think before taking my ledger as cleaning paper.

“And are you her natural mother?”

This time the pause was more pronounced and the shaking of her hands would have been obvious to even untrained militia let alone her.

“I have to go check the child’s room. To assess proper conditions. You have no idea how many families neglect their spawn” she remarked off-handedly. Easily finding the room and stepping in, Kayori froze as…something assaulted her senses. It was difficult to place, much in the manner it was exceptionally difficult to cup smoke in ones hands. And she recognized it.

Dischordia!

Now the pieces were snapping into view. Leaving the child’s room with nothing except a backwards glance, she nodded briskly to Ecielle. “Good day ma’am. I have all the information I need” she stated before making her way out of the house. The moment the door closed behind her she dropped the ledger and broke into a fast run with boots thumping on the ground in tune with her heart.

A Dragon-Borne! Here!

Ducking past a trio of farmers without even glancing at their bodies, Kayori tore into the Nexus with her arrival causing quite a few glances. “Captain!”

“What now, Kayori? Want some more sweet-root?” he mocked before stopping at the seriousness and glimmer of panic in his charges eyes.

“Sir! We have a situation” she whispered and stepped close so that to all watching it seemed like a private moment. “We have a Dragon-Borne. The red-haired girl sitting over at the stall” Kayori continued in that same hushed voice. Feeling her commander freeze, she nodded. “We have to kill it now! It turned nine today!” she finished.

“Men! Form up!” the commander roared and almost instantly thirty of the forty men had appeared.

“S-Sorry sir…the others are…occupying some of the ladies” one reported with a clearly dismayed expression at being left out.

“Boys…we have us a Dragon-Borne. Nock your arrows and fire at the red-headed girl” he ordered briskly and a bare two seconds later each man had their bows drawn with an arrow loaded. Bows which had previously been hanging over their shoulders.

“Fire!”

Vaeli watched the thirty arrows rocket towards her in slow motion. All sound had ceased in the village and all her ears could hear was the murderous shrieking of arrows as they cut through the air. Tears trickled from her eyes.

I…I don’t want to die…

As the arrows neared to within, something…burst inside of her. Something searing hot and as it spread through her, Vaeli doubled over in agony but she was still not out of the arrows trajectory. With a scream torn free not from herself but seemingly from the underworld, Vaeli collapsed to her knees and rocked forward until her head met the pavement.

Vaeli’s back bulged horrifically as if something within was trying to claw its way out. Indeed, two spikes of bone had pierced her flesh and in a sudden move which was brutal in its simplicity and execution, they slashed downwards.

And two great crimson wings exploded out. They shone in the sun with the blood and scraps of flesh that covered them whilst chunks of bone fell to the earth like hail. Quickly descending, they wrapped around the trembling and weakly whimpering Vaeli.

Just for a second…the briefest second…hazel eyes glared out from between a gap in the wings before the two eyes were hidden behind the thick membrane of the wings.

A moment later and the screams started up again…as did the sounds of flesh being rent.

The arrows bounced off the wings ineffectually in a manner reminiscent of them once shooting spit-balls at their teacher. Annoying…but harmless. As the arrows struck and bounced off to clatter upon the stones, they started to smoke before they all erupted into a dark-red blaze which served to make the blood-soaked wings glow ominously.

And her screams…changed to a roar of bestial fury.

Well, I guess I'll put one up for a change. I hope it's not too long. I wrote it for a college class.


Freak Accident


Amelia was gone. Ed had tried to convince her to stay, but she hadn’t heard a word he said. That had always been the problem in their marriage, communication. Even when he was alive, Ed had been unable to get her to see things his way. She’d never thought much of his opinions, never wanted to do things his way, even though his way was better. Maybe he was better off without her.

But each time he looked around him at the eerie, empty, beach-side house, he wasn’t so sure.

He remembered the last time he had seen her there. He was sure he had almost gotten through to her… accidentally. He had seen a box labeled, “Ed’s manuscripts,” being carried out the front door by one of the movers. Amelia hadn’t taped it right. She never taped things properly.

He forgot himself and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. The effect was astounding. The mover started violently and dropped the box, and just as Ed expected, the tape split open and a few manuscripts slipped out onto the sandy wooden floor.

Great, Ed thought. The last writings of the late Ed Mills, lying in the dust. Unable to stand the sight of his life’s work still lying on the floor, Ed moved to pick them up. He stopped in surprise to read that one of them was titled, “This Was No Suicide.”

That’s right, he remembered. It was one of my first stories, a murder mystery. What a clichéd piece of crap that was! It could serve a purpose, though, if I can find a way to get hold of it.

The mover was picking up the manuscripts. Ed hastily reached for the mystery story, not sure what he expected to happen. He was delighted to see it slide away from the box. The mover jumped and called Amelia in to see.

Ed hurried to move it again to show her he was there. Before he could reach it, she snatched it up and tossed it into the box. The mover lifted the box and headed for the truck.

She looked around warily, shook her head, and went back to packing. Ed stared after her but made no further attempt to communicate. A few hours later, she was gone, leaving behind only a sticky candy wrapper and her footprints in the sand by the screen door.

He tried everything he could think of to get out in the month after she left, but he seemed bound to the spot, or at least to the house. He loved the house, of course; it was beautiful, overlooked the ocean, and he’d written some of his best stories there. But now it was a prison. The worst part was that it was empty and he needed someone there, someone who could perhaps help him settle a very pressing problem.

He had a message for the living, for Amelia especially. He hadn’t killed himself. They all thought he had, his wife, his friends, even his readers though attempts had been made to keep matters private. It enraged him every time he thought of it. They were even convinced he’d left a suicide note, but all that slip of paper had been was a bit of back story on his new book, an exercise to help him understand a character. No, it had been a terrible accident, a foolish one perhaps, but he certainly hadn’t taken his own life. He had too much to live for, talent, fame, friends, and a wife who would still be here if he had just checked the gun properly.

Fortunately, a new couple soon moved into the house. Ed watched them every moment that they spent unpacking, excited at the prospect of having living people around once more. He learned that their names were Art and Nat Ralston. Art was a partner in a prosperous accounting firm, and Nat was a locally famed artist. He had heard of them, chiefly through other writers and artists laughing about her work at the restaurant one evening, especially about her absurdly idealized cookie-cutter paintings of little children growing in flowerbeds.

Well, they sounded like an annoying pair, but if they could get his message to Amelia, he would forgive all of the bourgeois foolishness gladly. He practiced moving objects and appearing as a chill mist, watched, and waited for his chance to try and make contact.

He found over the next few weeks that Art rose early and Nat rose late, that he was a serious, no-nonsense type who didn’t believe in unusual things, while she followed that “new age” crap, as Art called it, and even tried to commune with spirits from time to time. From what they said, at a housewarming dinner they held soon after settling in, no one had been willing to take the house because of Ed’s death. No one, that is, until their rather unusual combination of viewpoints made them the perfect match for such a house.

Oddly, when Nat did try in her swooping, peacock-like way to make contact, he never felt remotely inclined to commune back. A nut like her could spout all day about how haunted her house was, and no one would believe a word of it. So he decided he would try Art first. After all, who would doubt the word of a skeptic? If he could convince the stodgy accountant that the place had spirits, maybe others would take him seriously.

He chose to try Art early in the morning to avoid Nat entirely. He waited in the kitchen until the man came in for breakfast. Art came in, flipped on the light, and was confronted by the shadowy form of a man. He froze.

Ed concentrated further, trying to look more solid, then began to speak. To his frustration, all that came out was a raspy sound, rather like the grumble of a sleeping dog. Art put his hand to his chest, his breathing sounding short and strained.

Oh, crap, thought Ed. Is he having a heart attack? That’s all I need, the company of a stiff like him. Haunting is bad enough alone! Alarmed, he vanished. He watched as Art leaned against the wall, recovering, then rushed back to his room to wake his wife. So it seemed, at least, but he stopped just short of it. Instead, he grabbed his things and hurried out.

Every day after that, Art ate breakfast out. He said it got him to the office faster.

Ed was not ready to quit yet. He hadn’t thought the last one through, that was the problem. He considered a few ideas and found one he was sure would be less startling. This time he waited in the bathroom and patiently watched the mirror grow steamy as Art showered. As Art stepped out, Ed began to write his message in the mist on the mirror.

Art stared, aghast, then shrieked and ran out without his towel. Ed stopped mid-message, stunned and surprisingly, a little queasy. Art soon came back with his sleepy wife to show her the mirror.

“What is it?” she mumbled, looking up. “Death? Why did you write this?”

Death. Oh, that was stupid, Ed thought. He had been trying to write “death was accident.” Idiotic, but succinct, he had thought at the time. He realized he should have written it through before Art came out.

“I didn’t! Something did, maybe the thing I saw in the kitchen last week!”

“What thing, you never told me you saw something in the kitchen!” She was excited. “I thought this house was clean. I did a cleansing after I heard about that poor man who killed himself.”

“That’s it, I’ll bet it’s him!” he hissed, as if trying not to be overheard.

“Oh, the poor soul! Unhappy in life and chained here in death.”

“Poor soul? He nearly gave me a heart attack!”

Nat laughed. “Art, you’re in perfect health.”

“You didn’t see what I saw!” He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist. “I’m dressing in the bedroom.”

“Whatever. Just don’t make too much noise. I’m going back to bed.”

“With that thing in the house?”

“Why not?”

“Nat, we have to contact the realtor, cancel the sale. I’ll take it to court if I have to. They misrepresented the house.”

“I love this house. He hasn’t done anything violent. Don’t worry about him.”

Art spluttered. “He wrote ‘death’ on the bathroom mirror! I think he’s made his point!”

“Now, don’t be silly.”

“Or… maybe we could call those guys in Rhode Island, y’know, those plumbers? They do exorcisms or something, don’t they?”

Nat laughed. “They do investigations, and they’d just tell you that the ghost means us no harm. They tell everyone that.
Besides, I don’t like all those gadgets they bring in, they feel so… unnatural.”

“The gadgets feel unnatural?” Art cried. He shook his head. “Well, I’m sleeping in a hotel tonight.”
Ed nodded. He couldn’t really blame him. He saw now, though, that Art was too stolid, too rigid. He was hard to convince, perhaps, but believing nearly drove him mad. Nat, who was already convinced, was going to have to be the one to get the message after all. Heaven help him.

The means to communicate with her was obvious: her attempts to “connect with the spirit world” as he had heard her say once. So after the events of the morning, it was no surprise to see her, after her morning work period, setting up for one of her sessions. She sat cross-legged in the middle of a circle of candles on her bedroom floor, holding crystals in her hands, silver chimes tinkling in the window.

Ed was amazed. He had been sure people like this weren’t real. The flowing imitation silk gypsy get-up, the crystals, the incense on the dresser. She closed her eyes and wobbled a little, looked like she was falling asleep. If she did, Ed worried, all that filmy polyester would go up in flames in seconds, and then he’d have her company, not help. That had to be even worse than the accountant. Well, he thought, I’d better get on with it.

“Hello!” he began. He wasn’t sure he would come through clearly, but he had to start somewhere. Nothing happened. He tried again, and again, and again.

Five minutes later, “Edward Mills, are you there?” she said in a deep, lowing voice.

Maybe there’s a delay crossing the… the… whatever. “Hello.”

“I have come to ease your pain,” she mooed.

“I’m right here, woman.” Can’t she even hear a moaning ghost noise or something?

“Edward, if you hear me, show me a sign. Ring the chimes or blow a candle…”

“The wind is already blowing and ringing them each, and I’m going rip those chimes down in about a minute.”

“I hear you, Edward.”

“The hell you do.” Ed wondered what to do next.

“Edward, speak. Don’t be ashamed. I understand your pain. We have both understood despair, the longing for release in
death, thinking suicide would bring the peace we lack...”

Damn it, there it is again, he thought. Furious, Ed snatched the chimes from the window and threw them at the candles.

Her eyes grew wide for a moment, but then she laughed. “Loose string,” she said, picking up the chimes.

Loose string?

Ed went berserk. He struck the candles across the floor, slammed the bed against the wall, shook the dresser, and slammed the closet door repeatedly. “Stupid hippie!” he shouted to no one. “You’re just full of crap, aren’t you? You contacted spirits before, alright, probably contacted your share of gin-and-tonics…”

“Stop!” screamed Nat, looking wildly around her, cowering among the fortunately guttered candles.

Ed stopped, still holding the closet door open. Angry as he was, he heard the fear in her voice and tried to calm himself. He had inspired awe, admiration, and even envy, but he had never wanted to inspire fear. He closed the closet door, one last time,
gently.

There was an enormous crash behind the closet door. Nat, shaking, rose and opened the door. Ed peered around it with her but saw only a fallen Scrabble game. Sure is loud for such a little thing, he thought.

Nat shivered. “It’s so cold here…” she breathed.

Oh, thought Ed. That must be me. Ghost thing, I’ve read about it.

“A cold spot,” she said. “Ed, are you here?”

How am I supposed to answer that? Irritated, Ed looked once more at the mess in the closet, wondering if she was just going to leave it there. It was then that he really noticed the tiles.

Of course, he thought, and began to slide the tiles.

Nat gasped and started. She took a few deep breaths, opened her mouth in an O of surprise, and smiled.

“Very clever, Ed.”

He had spelled, “Hi, I am Ed.”

Nat dropped to the floor and frantically turned over all the tiles. She scooted back and waited, her expression eager. Ed felt the same way.

He spelled, “Death was accident.”

“So that’s what you were trying to tell Art.” She giggled. “Wait until I tell him.”

“Not funny.”

“Sorry.”

Ed pondered and told her, “Bring Amelia.”

“Amelia?”

“My wife.”

“Oh! Amelia Mills.”

“Obviously,” he responded after finding the necessary letters.

“It’s like talking to Art. Alright, Ed, I’ll find her and bring her here, if you wish to speak with her.” She looked worried. “That’s all it is, right?”

“Yes. Message.”

“You have a message for her. Oh, how sweet! Yes, I will do it… wait.”

For what, he wondered, dismayed.

“If I do bring her…”

If?

“Will you leave the house after you give her the message?”

“What?”

“Will you leave her and us and this house in peace after that? Art may be blind to the deeper things of the world, but he is
my husband and I want him to be at peace in our home. And I wouldn’t want to bring her here to suffer more than she has.”

Ed wasn’t sure how he would do that, so he replied, “Do my best.”

“I’m sure that will be enough. And… I’ll hold you to it, Ed.”

How? Well, it would do. He laughed aloud. There must have been a lot of energy behind it, because Nat jumped. Even she could hear it, he thought, amazed. But of course he was thrilled. She was bringing Amelia.



Nat was as good as her word. Even before cleaning up the mess from Ed’s tantrum, she called the realtor for Amelia’s phone number and soon had made the promised appointment. Amelia was there the following morning.

Ed was so excited he couldn’t keep still. The curtains fluttered throughout the room and the shutters rattled. Nat smiled,
seeming to understand, as she answered the door and invited Amelia into her former house. Ed had almost forgotten how beautiful she was, even frowning as she was now. She even looked a bit frightened. Somehow that pleased and amused Ed. She had never been afraid of anything when he had been alive.

“So… are you a medium or something?” asked Amelia, when Nat had introduced herself.

“Oh, no, I’m just a sensitive spirit. I dabble a little sometimes, but my real passion-“

“Can we get this over with?” Amelia said immediately.

That’s it, Ed thought. Don’t waste time. I guess you can get through to her once in a while.

“You’re nervous, of course,” said Nat. “I can’t blame you.”

Amelia shook her head. “Not for the reason you probably think.”

This was interesting. Ed moved in closer.

“We weren’t… doing well, by the end. Ed was always difficult to live with. He always had to be right, even when he wasn’t, you know? Everyone stroked him and kept him happy all the time, everyone thought he was so witty and charming. I did, too, at first, I mean, he was already well-known when I met him and I really thought it was my fault when there was a problem. He had a way of convincing you of that.

“Then his books stopped selling, his face wasn’t in every bookstore window, and the ‘love’ dried up. I had to fill the void that left. I did love him, I guess I still do. But it would never have been enough. He needed to think the world loved him, and I was just me. I couldn’t keep up with the demand and I knew it. So I told him I was leaving. I should have known I would end up back here again because of him. Back in this stupid house he chose for us! He didn’t even ask me! Everyone says it’s a beautiful house, but I hate it!” She put her hand to her eyes.

Ed was frozen in shock. He felt betrayed. Here he had been through Hell, turned away from every bright light in case it was
the one he was supposed to go into, in order to reassure her that she could stop blaming herself because he had not in fact committed suicide… And this was what she was telling people about him! She didn’t even know this woman!

He slammed the front door and enjoyed seeing them jump. Nat nearly dropped the box of tissues she had fetched for Amelia.

“Right,” said Nat, shakily, holding out the box. “No more chit-chat, Ed’s waiting.”

“Yes,” said Amelia, swabbing her face as they entered the kitchen. “He used to do that when he was alive, too, if you kept him waiting.”

“Then you believe he’s here? That’s such a relief. Usually people take a lot of convincing.”

“Oh, no. I’ve always kept an open mind about hauntings, not really having enough information to draw a final conclusion. And if anyone could hang on against all good sense, it’s Ed.”
Ed slammed a cupboard door. Prepared this time, they only flinched slightly.

“Here, this is how we spoke earlier.” Nat sat at the table and poured the Scrabble tiles onto the table and began to turn them over. Amelia raised an eyebrow as she took a seat.

Ed didn’t wait until they had finished flipping the tiles. He started moving them immediately. Amelia jerked her hands away from the table.

“I guess he’s ready to talk,” said Nat, still flipping tiles.

You bet I’m ready to talk, you new age crackpot. Nat flipped the last “F” and Ed finished his message.

“You left.”

“Who me?” asked Amelia, trembling.

“Well, it wasn’t me…” said Nat faintly.

Sheesh. Waste of breath.

“Well, yes, I left. I hated it here. You knew that, not that you cared. Besides, people leave a house when someone commits
suicide in it.”

“Not suicide,” spelled Ed.

“Not suicide! Are you dead and crazy? A judge looked at all the facts and ruled it a suicide.”

“Accident,” Ed responded with confidence.

“Oh, save me. It’s just like he’s right here arguing with me.” Amelia sighed shakily, tears in her eyes. “Ed, assuming that you somehow managed to fall with your mouth open on a firing gun, there’s still the suicide note. Explain that.”

He was hoping she’d ask about the note. He had this one all figured out. “Back story.”

“Back story. You were writing a book about a suicide?”

“Yes.” Try and talk that one away.

“Ed, the note was written to me! ‘Dear Amelia, I’m sorry for the shock you will feel when you find I am gone…’”

Ed moved tiles frantically. “No. Joke.”

“No joke. You left a note Ed, to me. Explain that away.”

Why doesn’t this game come with punctuation? Ed thought, irritably rearranging his message.

“It was a joke.”

“What? ‘It was a joke?’ A minute ago it was back story!” Amelia shouted.

He angrily dashed the tiles to the floor.

“Stop it!” she cried. “Same old Ed! Throwing a fit doesn’t make you right and me wrong! You know very well why you did it,
Ed! And you did it, don’t think you’ll ever convince me otherwise!”

Ed shoved the table into the wall. Why didn’t anyone believe him? He had explained the whole thing! He remembered distinctly… He was working on a book right before he died. It was about a man whose life was falling apart, so he decided to shoot himself. He had written the note blaming everyone but himself, put the gun into his mouth, and pulled the trigger. As the gun went off, though, this was the hook… As the gun went off, the immaturity of this act suddenly grew clear to him, and the second before he died he had thought, “No! Wait!” Then came the urge to vomit, followed immediately by the world exploding in red and searing lights. Finally, the consuming darkness… It was so cold there, even when Amelia came in and found him and screamed… Amelia found him. Amelia found him.

Amelia and Nat seemed frozen in place. The silence was thunderous. Ed groaned, a primal cry of despair. The women started once more.

I’m an idiot, he thought. Only an idiot would have gone on this long forgetting something like that. The cupboard doors trembled in reaction as he remembered. Why in Hell had he ever chosen to kill himself that particular way? He had no stomach and he still felt like he was going to be sick…

And the reason for it, what kind of reason was that? It was the ultimate act of sour grapes, he realized. The truth in all its ugliness burned its mark into his incorporeal mind with letters of fire, all was clear at last. I put her through that because I couldn’t be wrong, couldn’t be inferior. I had to be superior even if it meant she had to feel inferior instead. I was never a real writer. Maybe I could have been, but in the end… I was the latest fad in best-sellers, the books stupid people read to feel smart. And I couldn’t keep that up. Oprah Winfrey picked something else and the world forgot Ed Mills. After that, it was just like Amelia had said.

He had blamed everyone but himself… the public, their friends, Amelia. He had alienated them all, little by little. Amelia had held out the longest, out of love, she said. Maybe it was really because she needed him. He had seen to that. And when she couldn’t take anymore, when even she had had enough, and found ways to stop needing him… She was all he had had left.

And so I pouted, Ed thought. I childishly tried to make them all sorry. And when it was over, I couldn’t accept my own stupidity, my own fault in all of it, so I blotted it out, and even in death I tried to tell the world a lie to cover my butt. Typical.

“Ed?” said Nat hesitantly. “Are you there?”

He moved a few Scrabble tiles on the floor in a random sort of way to show that he was.

“Do you have anything else to say?”

“Yes.”

Amelia sat staring through her fingers at the tiles, cheeks wet with tears. He watched her for a moment, wondering what he could say with Scrabble tiles. Then he knew what he could say, what he had never said to her before.

“Sorry.”

She gasped.

“My fault.”

Amelia wept.

“Goodbye,” Ed told them.

“Goodbye, Ed,” said Nat.

Ed turned, moved to the door, knowing somehow that now he could go out. He looked back once at Amelia, then moved out into the growing brightness. He left the door open behind him.

heh, this is from back when i used to do really short, unfinished works of fantasy. This one i posted ages ago back when i used to be a bit of a writter on quizilla. The formatting might have got screwy, so appologies there.


Maltherazai Rising: Prologue http://www.quizilla.com/stories/5675903 ... zai-rising

Maltherazai Rising: Chapter 1 http://www.quizilla.com/stories/5675908 ... -chapter-1

I just started a blog to organize my short stories. You can read it here: SeasAndSuns.blogspot.com. There's not much there right now, but I mostly write fantasy and science fiction.

Something i wrote during yet another session of depression i had during Maths.


Floodgates open spilling scarlet oceans,
Scarred, twisted, destructive emotions,
My mental anguish fades away,
Alas, it'll come back to fight for another day,
I must prepare my satanic blade,
I must keep up this unearthly charade,
To win this war deep inside my head,
I lost the chance of victory as soon as i bled.

Wrote this a while back when things went s**t.

If I knew whats happening inside my mind,
I would do anything to unchain the gate and get inside.
It ruins everything.
It makes me run and hide.
You dont wont to bother with the reflection in your eyes.
A problem shared is a problem spread, and Im as neurotic as ever.
I feel like a ghost anyway, ever since I was born.
Hit with a rose, but never removed the thorn.
With the wound open and displayed up on the wall,
Im going to end up being the only utensil alone in the draw.
But I dont care anymore.
I dont care.


Dont laugh.

Another story I just put together. It has one or two allusions to the previous story I posted.

I am aged 41 now. For all but the last decade I led a normal life. Or at least I thought I did. I had no reason to think otherwise.

I had no option other than to think I was normal. It was what society expected of me. Even if I thought deep down I might not be.

As I reached the age of 31, I was at my wit's end, at the end of my tether wondering why - although I thought I was normal, I was not getting along very well in the trappings of "normal" life. Especially meeting, and making relationships, with women. I wondered why I was only getting anywhere with women at Sainsbury's. Surely that wasn't "normal".

Desperate for solutions, I went to my GP. I was willing to look anywhere for assistance. Why was the life of someone apparently "normal" not turning out in a "normal" way?

It was from that consultation with my GP that my life changed. I was diagnosed with a syndrome. A syndrome that makes me extremely talented. That was why I wasn't really normal. I thought, "Wow". This news gave me a new "oomph", a new vibrancy. It was like winning the FA Cup. I knew it paid off not to be normal.

This syndrome has features such as being good at communication, due to my vocabulary, and my phenomenal memory, and general knowledge, and my prowess in pursuits such as Scrabble. The syndrome also causes me to be able to make sparkling conversation and connect well with others due to admittedly obsessive interests (the Sainsbury's thing was discussed at length with my GP). It is what causes me to be very academically bright, meaning there's no limit to how far I can go in life, as doors are open in any field I wish and I can get a job anywhere due to academic performance.

Anxiety can be a side effect of the syndrome. But that’s a talent in itself when it occurs, as it shows me where people with my syndrome can be better supported, and helps me in stating the case for fairness and understanding. Other powers the syndrome gives me are useful sensory skills like detecting temperature, sounds, smells and details such as correct language usage better than typical people.

Speaking of which, here’s a little story. When I was 35 I did have a girlfriend, named Kathryn. Kathryn was a doctor, so she was super smart. With my eye for correct and proper language I noticed, as smart as she was, she didn’t seem able to use capitals when typing, including when typing her own name. To cut a long story short, my curiosity about this led to a bust-up. A case of my super powers getting the better of me.

Greater self-awareness and knowledge of my extreme talent would later enable me to become chief executive of Sainsbury's, and World Scrabble Champion.

But back to the present, I just told a friend Jessie that I've just been diagnosed with a syndrome which gives me all the super-powers I've just mentioned. How I have the special power to focus so well on things, helping me do anything I want to do. How my GP told me that some guy on the continent, who lived during the early 20th century, his name sounded something like Mr Asperger, had powers just like mine. How I'm so impressed with that.

My friend had a special admission to make too. She has the powers a famous person was known to
have, in this case another continental chap Mr Bleuler. These powers include prediction of the future, being able to read people’s minds, and the insight to see and hear stuff no-one else can. It really helps Jessie to think very well outside the box and have a lot of unique ideas, perceptions and takes on life. I thought, "Wow, that's just as amazing as my powers" and wished I had them.

To prove that like typical people, I don’t get things right all the time, I once said to Jessie, “Are you delusional or something?”

“I’m delusional? What the hell is that supposed to mean? I’m thinking that it’s probably better if you don’t talk to me any more.”

That was that, but there’s no doubt I have done extremely well due to my powers.
[i]

Here's a few of my poems:

the lizard man

the lizard man sleeps in a magnetic bed
by a radio tuned to a song in his head
and he's dreaming of times when there won't be a need
for human devastation, in the name of some creed

he remembers the future, he imagines the past
in a series of visions that he knows will not last
but he knows there's a reason, why it all has to end
When he wakes he'll go on as the travesties bend

the lizard man sleeps in a magnetic bed
by a radio tuned to a song in his head
and he's dreaming of times when they won't be afraid
to break from the strings of this flesh masquerade

he can see through the static, he can peer from the stars
and he sees what's behind all those glamorous wars
but he knows there's a reason, why it all has to end
when he wakes he'll go on if just to pretend

but he isn't alone, and he's not without strength
and in time he will sever the desolate length
of a thousand year reign that has lived on unseen
for he cannot know peace in the hours between

soon the moment will come, and our planet unchained
and the world will know peace, and our freedom regained
as a martyr reversed he will stand and expel
to the death will he end all the despots of hell

the beggar

the wind was her music
unknown melodies caressed
rippling light in her hair
like leaves the sun undressed

the sea was her spirit
brushing the shores of my mind
cleansing the darker sides
with her ominous tides

i am an exile of her heart
a breathless beggar with wings
pleading silence to depart
and let in all her love that sings
i am a pagan to the rest
a godless lover of spite
as the decadent i ’ve become
starving endlessly for her…

dead light district

heartless harlot, make your way
through desperate homes of disarray
and fill their heads with petty tongue
so they may feel forever young

and in their moment of your lie
they sadly smile and kiss goodbye
all hope of ever getting through
to any light that's left in you..

you wander wayward through the streets
to find your peace beneath the sheets
but all you give is space between
and let your visage go unseen

there's consequence behind your smile
and lust for pain as you beguile
they'll never know how much to take
and soon enough their hearts will break

the sanity and strength to shield
their skin and soul and shame revealed
will lose its grip and deem them dead
if not the flesh, then in the head

so thus again you pass along
and manifest your right in wrong
with livid kiss and siren hiss
to once again inflict your bliss

I really like your work. Your grasp of the lyrical is admirable.

Thanks. I don't think I've written anything in over a year. No inspiration, I guess. I wrote Dead Light District after an experience with this girl who had some serious issues. I felt like I was being led on and pushed away all at the same time.

I believe this is the last thing I wrote, somewhat based on a dream:

they came with the storm

they came with the storm
with an inverse appeal
and a voice that could silence
every blinding ideal

they know only sadness
only shadows and pain
and they thrive on our sorrows
in a desperate plane

would they ever feel pleasure?
could they ever know love?
in some grasping conclusion
that they're unworthy of
could they find some solution
to the horrors they bleed?
could there be some compassion
in this desolate breed?

they came with the storm
in a westward black wind
and they sang in attrition
with no hope to ascend

their ominous pleads
will bring them no boon
thus their imminent rest
is never too soon..