Can't be bothered writing any blurb to go with this story, I was working again tonight. Accursed middle management and their "economy drives", meaning we have less hours on the roster to deal with more customers...gah!
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A gaunt man sat in his favourite armchair, in front of the banked fireplace, reading a weighty tome. It didn't appear to be just a normal book - the pages were black, the words inked in red, and seemed to squirm under the eyes of the reader. Looking at him, it appeared he was fighting an immense internal battle, without moving a muscle. Sweat glistened on his forehead, collected into beads, and rolled down to collect on the long thin beak of a nose. He flicked his eyes to the right hand edge of the page, and, intense concentration showing on his face, dragged his eyes to the left, turning the page mentally. Coming to the end of a paragraph, he was almost at the point of collapse, but managed to control himself right through to the last full stop, visibly slumping into the cushions as he finally relaxed. He closed his eyes slowly, letting the newfound knowledge assimilate itself into his essence.

The phone shrilled harshly, startling him from his daze. Scowling at the wall opposite only made the wallpaper blister and shrivel up, so he dragged himself from the chair's comfortable embrace and paced out into the hallway. He picked up the black plastic earpiece and held the body of the old-fashioned phone to his mouth.

"Lord Phillip Rothenbury here."

"Umm, yes, hello dear sir. I am...Kevin, and I am calling you today to offer you a wonderful luxury holiday package for yourself and any possible ladyfriend you might have..."

Dear heavens, he thought, another Indian telemarketer? You'd think they'd learn soon enough, being the superstitious people he knew them to be. Ahh, well, he thought, at least I can see if this afternoon's effort has paid off...

"...and the best part of this wonderful package, especially for you today dear sir, is that this entire beautiful week-long retreat can be had for just the small sum of 50 pounds, all included. Would sir like to take advantage of this incredible offer?"

"No, I shall bally well not! And I've had it up to here with you bloody fools calling me out of the blue - why, if you'd called only ten minutes earlier, you'd have broken my concentration and I could have been sucked into the very essence of an arcane book of the subtle workings of black magic!"

Feeling his anger building as he vented his words, he incanted a short series of gutteral syllables, harsh and alien to the human tongue. He heard the sound of distant thunder on the other end of the phone, then a loud frying sound like a juicy steak on a barbeque, and then a host of screams and cries of surprise and horror. Grinning to himself, he thought, monsoon season - what perfect weather for testing a lightning spell.

"Bloody telemarketers..." he muttered, and returned to the study to finish his nap.
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I'm really starting to like this guy...so blase about evil :D

Goodnight!

hmmmm....I could post, or I could sleep...seeing as it's 1:30am here, I think the latter wins. A mate of mine and I did a short road trip out to Bathurst and back tonight, I've just gotten home.

I've got a few ideas for stories involving the villain below bouncing around in my head, expect them soon ;)

Your captain apologizes for the delay....

Sooooooo.....it's been a few days since I posted on here...naughty me :( I'd like to say that I haven't had time due to university commitments (which is kinda true), but it's also because I've been a bit lazy. So without further ado, here's another story.
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The sun bore down mercilessly, roasting everything to a dry husk. The plants, the grasses, the animals, all had adapted to deal with the scorching heat. Anything that couldn't find water in this arid place soon died, as there were no second chances given. Vultures flew miles above the landscape, removing any trace - save a few bleached bones - of the unlucky ones. A group of the scavenger birds were flying low around the prone figure of a man, crawling feebly with no apparent destination. He was dressed in military fatigues, with a name patch reading "Hopkins" sewn on, and had a small briefcase handcuffed to his left wrist, which, when he crawled another metre, seemed far heavier than it could possibly be. He croaked in fear every time one of the birds flew between him and the sun, casting a momentary shadow, and writhed another few metres further. He stopped moving forwards and laughed, a painful, forced sound. Speaking to no-one in particular, he said, "At least out here, I should be safe...they'll find my body, and it'll all be OK..." He laughed again, a longer, drawn out sound this time, which faded off into nothing. He rolled onto his back, and hugging the suitcase tightly, closed his eyes and waited for death.

His dreams of heat and nothingness were interrupted a short while later when a shadow fell over him. Feeling the coolness, his eyes flickered half-open, then shot wide as he took in the silhouette of the man standing above him.

"No! It can't be! How could you have found me all the way out here?"

But the shadow stayed silent.

"Ha! I know! This isn't real, I'm hallucinating from the heat. You're just a mirage, a bad dream!"

He started squirming backwards, digging his shoulders into the soft sand. Now the standing man stepped forward and leaned down.

"You know, old chap, rather a lot of people have said that before - I'm just a bad dream, a nightmare come true. I tend to think they might be correct, too."

He laughed, a cruel sound, and reached into his jacket pocket, withdrawing a strangely dull grey key. Hopkins' eyes followed it as the stranger inserted it into the handcuffs and released the briefcase from their metal embrace, noting that it didn't reflect any of the sun's rays.

"Well thank you for safe-keeping this little token for me, old fellow. You know, it's really a pity that you chose to make yourself a martyr for the other side - you could have gone a long way if you'd stayed with my good self."

Hopkins reached out for the man's leg, but found only the hard, polished ebony of a thin black cane.

"Now now, don't make it harder on yourself - you've already made me come all the way out here, in the middle of nowhere, which means I'll wreck yet another suit jacket getting back."

He tapped the hand away with the cane, and a pair of black, leathery wings sprouted from his back and unfolded metres above both men, blocking out the sun.

"Ahhh-hhhh-hhhh, it feels so very good to let one's true self show through every now and then, doesn't it? Well, I suppose I could help you to the next waterhole, but really, what kind of an example would that be setting for those who oppose me? So, alas, it is time for us to part. Fare thee well, dear Hopkins, and do give my regards to Lucifer when you see him..."

With these words, he launched himself into the air, holding his cane and the briefcase in the same hand, as he checked his pocket watch. Satisfied that his short absence would not be noted, he flew away, the flap of his wings almost, but not quite, covering the sound of an insane man's laughter.
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Wow...yet another story that turned out nothing like my original mental picture! Oh well, I like the evil character, I think he has a few more stories left in him ;) I only have to think of a name for him :D 650 words too, and I didn't even notice them going...I really had fun writing that, speaking the villain's words out loud, in a posh English accent...thank christ no-one else is home, or I would have gotten some strange looks!

In other, unrelated news, I signed up for the Army Reserves today, which means I'll do all kinds of crazy fun things like jumping off cliffs and running around in the bush, as well as getting fit - which I really need to do. I'm still pretty skinny, but I don't know how long that will last into my 20's without exercise...

Another story!

Same girl as the previous post, on MSN. I asked her for an idea for a story...

"washing machines" comes back...

*sigh* unrequited love almost seems not worth bothering with sometimes...

Anyways, without further ado, I present to you, readers, the humble tale of the washing machine (goddammit, she could have chosen something at least the slightest bit romantic...)
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Although it had started as the least of my worries, laundry was quickly becoming my most challenging task, now that I'd moved into my own place. Back at home, dirty clothes were dumped in a basket, to magically re-appear a few days later, clean and ironed. It had been a process that required no thought or effort on my part. In anticipation of leaving home, I'd learnt to cook - at least at a basic level - and tidy up after myself. After just one week in the tiny flat, I had just now realised that I didn't have any clean clothes OR a washing machine. Oh dear. Panicking, I called home.

"Hello?"

"Hi mum, it's me..."

"Oh, hello Simon! How are things in the new place?"

I could sense her loneliness. No mother wants to let go of their children - it's the final admission that they're getting old, and after almost 20 years of looking after every detail of their lives, it leaves a huge hole in their daily routine which most struggle with for years to fill.

"Well, actually, I...uh...need some help."

She laughed at this, as if she didn't already know it. Just as every parent is reluctant to let go, every child is all too eager to branch out on their own - only seeking contact either for help or out of respect for all their effort in raising us.

"OK, it's obviously not too dire, so what do you need?"

"Uhh, it's about the washing..."

Another laugh came down the line, that infuriating sound that embarrasses the hell out of you if anyone else is around. It was usually followed by some sort of mocking comment.

"Well my boy, it seems I might make a daughter out of you yet!"

Yep, there it was, right on cue. I'd endured enough of it in the past to be able to ignore it now, but it still annoyed me in the way that only a mother can.

"Alright, very funny. But seriously, what the hell do I do? This place doesn't even HAVE a washing machine...I think there might be an ironing board in the cupboard though."

"In that case, you'll have to find a laundromat - you should have one nearby, they're often around students: they're the ones who need them most!"

Ahh yes, another joke. She really was missing me; she was trying to get as much value as she could from the conversation. Thanking her, I promised I'd call later that night and tell her how I got on.

I stared glumly at the wasteland of dirty clothes strewn around my bedroom, racking my brain to see if I’d walked past any laundromats in the previous week. I dimly remembered a spartan white shop, filled with rows of washers and dryers, next to a restaurant I'd visited a few days ago. Another thought struck me - how the hell do you transport the clothes? Sighing profoundly at the infernal difficulty, I grabbed my backpack and start stuffing the first load in.

Walking down the street, I couldn't stop imagining the bag's zipper coming open - exposing my choice in undies to the world. It was an unnerving feeling which dogged me even after checking several times that the backpack was still closed. By the time I reached the doorway to the place, I was thoroughly annoyed with the whole experience. I pushed open the door harder than I needed too, releasing some of the pent up rage, and almost died when it hit the wall behind with an almighty crash. Thank God I didn't break anything, although the few people inside looked up sharply at me, watching the blood rise to my face. Mumbling some half-hearted apology, I moved inside to be greeted with another mystery. How the hell did these things work? I stopped in front of one machine, and stared at it suspiciously for a few seconds. Right, I thought, I can figure this out - how hard could it be?
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On reflection, there seems to be a lot more to this story than I had originally thought - consider this to be Part 1 of a larger story. More to come when I'm less tired - it's currently 1:30am here...

Story: The Airshow

Work sucks. Yeah, I know, it's such a profound insight into life...like everyone doesn't already know it. Today's story comes courtesy of an idea from the most gorgeous woman I've ever met. Sadly, I don't think anything will ever happen between us, but this is a tribute to her.
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The smell of jet fuel hung heavily in the air, as the planes circled for another run. A thousand necks craned upwards, focusing intently on a pair of tiny dots, hanging in the sky. As the points grew larger, they resolved themselves into the sleek streamlined shapes of fighter planes. Normally laden with the instruments of death, today the jets carried only spare fuel tanks. They shrieked closer to the crowd, the noise from their twin engines ripping the sky apart, making those who had not bought earplugs cover their ears. As they came directly over the crowd, the two pilots pulled straight up, aiming for the stars, and lit their afterburners. A fifty-foot long gout of flame scorched the air, and the screaming intensified to a painful volume. The sleek birds of prey were once again tiny dots within seconds, climbing at a prodigious rate.

It was now the turn of the classic warbirds, as a Spitfire and a Mustang held a mock-duel in the sky directly above the mass of people, twisting and turning in an effort to outmanoeuvre the other machine. The petrol engines had a different sound to the jets, the angry roar of an enraged lion rather than the piercing shriek of a banshee. Watching them dodge and weave was a small girl, perched high on her father's shoulders, her eyes never leaving the flyers, her mouth set wide in a permanent grin of sheer joy. As other planes gathered round for the final flypast, she held her arms out, imagining herself behind the joystick, feeling the ground rushing by underneath her.

A young woman stands proudly on the tarmac, the golden sun gleaming off the two striped epaulettes on her shoulders. A brass band plays a military air, as one-by-one the cadets march up to the Colonel. Finally, her turn having come, she steps forward, turns to the right, and strides towards her commanding officer, stopping at the appointed place three feet in front of him. The tiniest glimmer of a smile plays over the normally dour man's lips as he steps forward and pins a pair of wings onto her uniform. A now fully qualified pilot, she salutes her mentor, about-turns sharply, and returns to her place in line, her pride beaming from her face for the entire world to see. Her smile creeps wider still as she thinks of her first assignment, in less than a week's time.


Streaking over the landscape like a meteor, scant metres away from the treetops below, she banks left and heads back towards the airfield. Distant memories become clear, and she knows instinctively what she must do. Her deep brown eyes shine brighter than the sun as she grips the throttle bar, ready to fire up the afterburners. Flying over the first groups of spectators, close enough to make out individual people clustered around picnic blankets, she distinguishes the twin figures of a little girl, laughing with joy and pointing at her, seated on a man's shoulders. Hearing laughter echoing through her own cockpit, she pulls up, aiming straight for heaven itself, a trail of flame marking her ascent.

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So there you have it kiddies; now, it's time for bed - I've gotten bugger all sleep in the last week or so, and I'm buggered.

Another story

Bit of a differant tone to this one. As usual with my stories, an image of the first scene appeared to me, so that's where I started. Unfortunately this one came while I was trying to get to sleep, so I couldn't rest til I got it out - and it ended up being decently long, too!

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I saw her again today.

Mom had just called me down for dinner, and as I abandoned my homework, my gaze was drawn out the window. She was singing along to the radio or something, serenading the air, ignorant of me. I don't know how long I was standing there watching, but my attention was broken by a yell from below: "Patrick!". Red-faced, I turned to go, but stopped by the door, hoping for one last glimpse to tide me through 'til the next time I saw her. She had already disappeared.

Days came and went, schoolwork piled up, some of it done in time, most of it not. Knowledge was heaped upon us, in a rather futile hope that it wouldn't all leak straight out our ears, disappearing like smoke on the wind, the moment we stepped out into the playground. A thousand petty scores were settled, friendships broken then reaffirmed, and all the while, we were growing, being prepared for life.

I don't know where all those people are now. Truth be told, I'd find it hard to remember their names. Life followed it's usual course - exams, moving out of home, university, a string of semi-serious relationships, all doomed to failure within weeks. Life moves so fast, and I was too caught up in trying to keep up.

I got laid off today - apparantly it's cheaper to pay people in India or Thailand or somewhere. Driving home on autopilot, I find myself cruising down long-forgotten roads, back where I grew up. It's a terrible place now, full of huge housing developments, where the young people join gangs and the old people wait to die. Recognizing my street now, I pull over. Concrete, as far as the eye can see, looms over me, making me feel claustrophobic. Squatting quickly, trying to get breath back, I spy a smudge of yellow. It's a tiny flower, creeping up through a crack in the pavement. I gaze at its fragile beauty for what seems like an hour, marvelling at its perseverance, when the sound of heels on the pavement startles me out of my reverie. I look up. There she is - not young anymore, with a weary old-beyond-years look on her face, her hair now dyed a cheap, platinum blonde - but undoubtedly the girl from across the road.

Ages seem to pass. We both stare at each other's face, desperately hoping for a sign of remembrance, hoping to God that, yes, this ghost from the past is real. "I used to..." we both start, and then stop, shocked that after minutes of silence, we both chose the same moment to speak. Slowly standing, I say, "I'm Patrick", and extend my hand, offering her the flower. My hand had closed over it instinctively, drawing it out from the concrete like the long-lost memory of an auburn-haired girl. She takes it, and smiles, and blushes. "Thank you", she replies, "I'm Theresa."

"You know, I used to spy on you all the time", she told me as we walked back to my car.

"You always looked so serious, bent over your books."

Her tone, half-mocking, draws me from deep thought.

"All I remember is you singing and dancing."

A pained look flashes over her eyes at the mention of dancing, but clears almost instantly. We've reached the car now, and I'm suddenly frozen, right on the edge of the abyss.

"I don't suppose you'd, umm, like to go out for, uh, dinner or something, sometime?"

She shakes her head and flashes a ring - fourth finger, left hand. Damn. She kisses me on the cheek and walks away. I sit in the car, waiting, desperately hoping she'll change her mind, turn around, run back, anything, but no. She walks to the door of a building and lets herself in. The last thing I see is a little yellow flower, forlorn and lost, next to a thin band of gold.
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As I said - differant. That's all for now, I'm hungry. Working again tonight, too (Boo!)

Piratey goodness.

This comes from a challenge posted on the Writing Forums : "Write the most badass swordfight scene ever". Big variety of responses, with eastern and western themes, big battles and single duels...but no-one thought about pirates! No-one until me of course ;)
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As the cannon smoke cleared, Lt. Harper could see the crew of pirates, clustered on the deck, waiting for their chance to swing across and board. "Ye Gods," he said to Sargeant Willis, "there must be four score of them!" Willis' reply was cut short as a grappling hook pierced his shoulder, pulling him helplessly towards the rail.

"Soldiers of England!"

"Aye sir?"

"Stand by to repel boarders."

Harper drew his sword - a simple blade, unadorned with scrollwork, but perfectly weighted for combat - and braced himself. The almighty crash of the two wooden behemoths grinding together shook him off balance, but he regained his stance as the first pirates swung across, jumping from their mainsail. He cut the leading man down mid-air, and had impaled a second within another moment. Hearing a war-cry from above, he struggled to free his sword, but one of his redcoats - a corporal, the insignia said - was already there with an overhead parry, blocking the pirate's attack, before countering with a vicious killing blow. He smiled briefly at Harper, before his eyes rolled up into his head, and he slumped to the deck with a crimson stain spreading across his chest.

Harper found himself facing off with a huge bear of a man. Taking the initiative, the young Leftenant lunged forward, slicing the air with a swift overhead slash. His hand rang with agony as the pirate parried, speedier than he could have sworn was possible. Spittle covered the giant's beard as he gave a huge, booming belly laugh, while forcing Harper's blade slowly towards the deck. His muscles already aching, the English officer knew if it came to a battle of strength, his life would be forfeit. Marshalling his strength, he heaved the brute's sword upwards and rolled to the left. The deck was slipperly with blood already, and he slid several metres before scrambling to his feet. The clamor of battle was fading now, as his small squad were overcome by the bucanneer crew. He was aware that each second was counting against him now, so he took a deep breath, and with a cry of "Englaaaaaaaaaaaand!" he threw himself at the pirate. A low driving stab, parried to the left; a high overhead slice; riposted cleanly away; a desperate lunge towards the other man's face - who blinked and retreated. "Ahah!" thought Harper, as he continued to stab at his enemy's head, driving him slowly backwards. Thinking victory would be his at any moment, he fell into a pattern, and felt a hot line of agony drawn across his ribs. Stumbling forwards, he avoided a decapitating blow by sheer luck, and felt the hot breath of the Devil on the back of his neck. He lashed out blindly, still facing the wrong way, driving his broadsword up and backwards under his shoulder. A heavy weight fell on top of him and knocked him to the ground. Harper shrugged himself free, still shaking with adrenaline, and looked beside him at a face still set in a rictus grin.
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Mmmm...have fun? That's all for now kiddies, I gotta start work in less than half an hour.

- D

Off topic and other stuff

Well, at least that assessment is out of the way. I actually feel physically ill, probably as a result of 12-14 cups of crap coffee, 10 fingernails (I chew them mercilessly), and being hunched over the computer for 12 hours straight with no sleep....what fun.

Hmmm, this has been running for less than 24 hours, and I've made 5 spam posts already. I'm now going to limit myself to one Off Topic post a day, as well as some (hopefully daily) writing. I've also just gone through and deleted all but one of them.

Damn. Just remembered - Physics assignment due tomorrow, then another 10 minute presentation next Tuesday...and I'm working tonight.

Still up!

No, not the title of a dodgy porn flick. It is now daylight, the sun is rising, a gorgeous orange smudge creeping over the horizon. I've written about 3 minutes of the speech now (out of 20, remember?), and had a total of about 2 minutes shut-eye - I didn't dare go any longer for fear of falling asleep...and then I probably wouldn't wake up until *after* class, so this all-nighter would have been for naught.

If I continue at this rate, I predict I'll have time for about a 15 minute power-nap before class - followed by more coffee...oooh, even just thinking of more coffee makes my stomach more upset :(

Funnily enough, this is pretty much how I do all my assessments - I'll keep procrastinating until late on the night before it's due (notice how I didn't start 'til 10pm?), then burn the midnight oil to get it done in time, and do it in a very very dodgy way too. I'm supposed to have pretty much memorized this thing, and use only a palm card or two to help me. Yeah right - I'm gonna rock up there, and read it straight off my crappy, hand-written first draft, skipping around the scribbles where I changed my mind, holding onto the torn edges where I ripped it straight out of the book.

Organized, ain't I?

more (proper) writing

bugger it, this is going nowhere. I'm getting stressed out, so I'll take a break for five minutes and just write...

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I was tired, uptight, even edgy, and I felt like just leaving this crappy diner, walking the hell out of here and abandoning Sarah to her fate. The bile in my throat was rising slowly, as the greasy kebab I'd devoured earlier lost its battle against the God-knows-how-many cups of cheap instant coffee. Screw this, I thought, I'm gonna get some sleep. I dumped a coupla bucks in change on the tabletop, grabbed my jacket from off the back of the chair, and strode towards the flickering neon sign that read, "Exit". A suspiciously happy-looking owl on a poster on the door begged me to come back soon. I muttered, "Yeah, sure" under my breath as I pushed open the door and walked across the street, leaving footprints 6 inches deep in the snow. Winter had come early and hard this year, turning the city into a kind of reverse Gothic fantasy - everything was white, yet still kept the same air of grunge and disrepair. Reaching the car, I saw that some local kids had taken to the hood with a knife, carving out their gang's tag, obviously trying to inspire fear or something - but I felt nothing. My heart was as cold and dead as the night air - it had shrivelled up months ago, when Sarah first left me. The note on the front door had said it all: "If you love me, you won't try to find me..." It took me days after that just to summon up the courage to go outside, to face reality again. Just as life was starting to return to normal, she rang me up, out of the blue. The phone had shrilled angrily in my ear, at some ungodly hour of the morning.

"I need help" she had said, "I'm in trouble - big trouble..."

I had grunted at that, and she took it as a yes.

"Meet me at the Night Owl, as soon as you can."

No further explanation was given, just the desperate tone in her voice. I half contemplated ignoring it, going back to sleep, but I knew that my conscience would never forgive me.

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Heh...you can't tell from that how I feel at the moment, can you? ;)

I don't know where that's gonna go from here, I think I'll leave the second part for another day - hopefully not at 4:30am again!

*sigh* Back to the grindstone, I suppose...

damn...

Hmm....it's 11pm, Wednesday. Tomorrow, I've got a 20 minute speech to do in French on french renaissance thoughts on death and reality (yes, very obscure). I had a big night out last night, got home at 6am this morning, blind drunk, so I only got about 4 hours sleep, and still have the tail end of a hangover. I've so far found about 40 pages of source material (in middle French - very hard to understand) to sort through, understand, and somehow work into a presentation.

and coffee isn't working! It's gonna be a loooooooooooooooooooong night tonight...

One more...

Hmm...I think I might be getting the hang of this thing - and it only took me 10 minutes to work out how to delete that double post! mmm...anyways, here's another nugget, from a few days ago. I'll be trying to write something every day, or least a couple of times a week, to get used to the whole idea...anyways, enough of that, it's story time!
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Something glistened in the feeble torchlight.

A pickaxe slowed, stopped mid-flight, and was lowered slowly. “Strewth!” half-whispered Bill, leaning in for a closer look. His hand, black with dirt and covered in blisters, brushed off the loose dirt, showering the ground below. More of the strange stone was now showing through, and the workers closest to Bill paused in their work, looking at the object with a mixture of hope and cynicism, borne of decades of hard labour with minimal reward. Moving slowly, as if trying not to scare away a rare animal, Bill chipped away around the edges of the increasingly round deposit. Once stripped of its protective dirt, the orb shimmered in the flickering light, as more miners gathered to see what old Bill had found. He reached out gingerly with a weathered finger, touching the sphere with reverential care. His eyes shot open, and he half-stumbled, half-fell backwards. With strange symmetry, the group of men surrounding him also retreated, only to be caught off balance as Bill lunged forward again, his clawed hands trying to prize his treasure from its earthen womb. Everyone inched closer as Bill struggled like a man possessed, physically attacking the rock, the mad glint in his eyes only visible as the faintest of reflections on the ebony surface. With a faint plop like a rock tossed into a pond, the ball came free and Bill fell backwards again, landing awkwardly. A chorus of voices broke the silence as a forest of hands reached out to help him to his feet, but all fell silent and still as Bill drew himself up regally, pointedly ignoring all offerings of assistance. “Give us a look at what yer found, Bill”, said one of the crowd. His head turned to look at the interlocutor, who felt distinctly uncomfortable under a gaze that seemed to focus at infinity. Without a word, Bill turned and strode towards the lift, followed by a few of the more dogged and curious of his comrades. The rest of the crowd dispersed and headed back to their stations. No-one at all noticed the growing crack in the wall, spreading outwards from the perfectly round depression like a spider web.

He heard the first screams of fear and agony as he reached the rickety wooden platform. An inhuman smile, completely lacking humour, played briefly over his face as he shut the gate, trapping every last soul down in the shaft. He thought to himself that he ought to let the hound have its fun, before beginning the slow journey to the surface. This piece of flesh might be a poor conduit, but there was plenty of time…

And as the screams were cut short, one by one, his smirk became a laugh, booming through the tunnels now splattered with blood and gore.

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Yeah I know, kinda wierd...I don't know how it went off sideways with the Prince of Darkness...I'd originally thought it'd just be some poor old bloke getting lucky and finding a valuable rock or something...this is much more interesting, I think :D

- D

First go

Bugger...first post, and I somehow manage to do a double post! Oh well...

This is the first chunk of writing, dug out of an old notebook from years back...please forgive the somewhat typical teen-angsty tone of it ;)

A ghostly face
peers through the glass,
shrugging off the rain.
Finding no shelter,
moves on, gaze lowered -
ignorant of the miracle
all around.

Every raindrop is a rainbow,
every cloud a palette:
the world is a watercolour.

Welcome!

Well, I suppose seeing as this is the first posting I'm doing here, I should explain myself a little. My name is David, I'm currently 21, a uni student in Sydney (Australia), and have absolutely no idea what I'm gonna do with my life...not that I'm too worried about it.

I suppose you'll find out most of the other stuff as this blog goes on, so there's no need to write my whole life here.

A lot of the posts here will be my attempts at amateur writing, mostly prose, and as a result, I'd appreciate any feedback about anything in my work - especially if you're a professional (or even another amateur!) writer. For the moment, I've opened up commenting to the general public, but if it gets trolled then I'll restrict it back to registered people only. Oh, and please don't worry about offending me with anything you say - I know I'm crap, and I'm thick-skinned. Fire away! :D