Monday, 23 July 2012

Silly hope...

This poem is a bit of a downer really, but happy reading!

Silly hope,
Why do you give me
Reasons to expect
When in the end,
All I can do is grieve your death?

Silly hope
Why do you give me
A thread to hang on to
Only to see it snap
And me plummet towards the end?

Silly hope,
Why do you falsify
Blind my eyes
Make me cry?

Silly hope,
Why do you make
This life a hyperbole,
Put plastic flowers,
Where there is only coal?

Silly hope,
You don't deserve
A place,
In a heart
That easily breaks...

Wednesday, 18 July 2012

Visual dare: gutted

For part one click here.

He pushed open the door and hurried inside. The old wooden panels gave way under his heavy six foot frame, each crack in the wood equal to a spear right through his heart. He stared at the objects which had meant everything to him in a past life.
Don't think. The memories would cripple you. 
A slight breeze swept in through the broken window panes, wrapping him in a cool embrace. 
Don't feel. Don't think. Don't stall.
He strode purposefully to the end of the deserted room, his heart fluttering with excitement. He looked at his old worn out desk and smiled.
All was not lost. The 'rooh' was still there.

Saturday, 14 July 2012

The innocent dreamer


My sister just opened her blog showcasing her stories. As with anyone new to this blogging world she is still finding her feet. Help her improve her art on her
Blog. Read, comment, follow n flood her with support and encouragement! :D
Cheers!

Thursday, 12 July 2012

FSF: Composure

The sweltering heat made her blood boil but she resisted.
The thirst made her throat constrict so as no sound would come out but she resisted.
The hot sands of the desert scorched her bare feet but she didn't betray a single emotion.
Clouds of uncertainty hovered over her dying brain and yet she couldn't muster a single tear.
The only thing that was certain was death and an inane hope that it too might change.

Visual dare: Distorted




I stared at the leather bound journal sitting across me on the desk tempting me to steal the tiniest glance inside.
"The forbidden pages," the monk had said, "no one had read it for the past 500 years. It holds the secrets of life and death but there is a price...a heavy price."
He had kept the book on the desk and left me alone to decide. The book unnerved me, the secrets that lay a page away intimidated me but the knowledge -the knowledge in those old fragile pages excited me. 
I remembered by life before I became a seeker. A normal high schooler with a very average life. But then I had found out about the pages. Now it was all a passion for magic. It had become more than a hobby, it was a crazy addiction and I was willing to pay anything to learn.
"The price is your soul." the monk had said. And I had decided.
How had life suddenly become so distorted?

Monday, 9 July 2012

FSF: Pirates



He felt the tip of the sword graze his back as he stumbled towards the edge of the plank.
The sea underneath, roared with the wrath and fury of an angry dragon thirsty for blood.
“Jump! Jump! Jump!” hollered the excited crew.
He closed his eyes, feeling the air caress his face as he braced for impact.
An angry shout came from the back-“How many times have I told you kids that my garden shack is not a pirate ship?!?”

Saturday, 7 July 2012

Visual dare: Parked outside




The sole working street lamp flickered and finally blacked out, joining the array of others who had lost their brightness years before him. Years of indifference and abandonment had finally taken its toll. With the last working street lamp gone, the town lost what little of a 'glow' it had.
Broken and battered buildings cast a forlorn gaze at the desolate and deserted street, their shattered windows becoming their tears, their cobwebbed rooms- the heart that had stopped beating. Every inch of their being held a tragic reminder of a history forgotten, bore witness to THE hell which everyone else seemed to forget.
The lone car parked on the edge of the street looked strangely out of place- a splash of colour in a black and white town. And so did the dark figure that stepped out creating a spur of movement in an otherwise quiet street. He ran his hand across the old teak door which had lost its colour but not it's grace. A single tear rolled down his cheek.
"They'll remember." He whispered. "I'll make them."



Word count is a more than 100. Hope thats not a problem. Comments and feedback appreciated!

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