We seated ourselves on a bench. He scribbled away in his notebook, noting the Gothic architecture. Then the word "vampire" caught my eye. I chuckled at the absurdity of it all. The monster he was eager to create was seated next to him. I glanced at the throbbing vein in his neck; my fangs descended. As if on cue, a heavy fog rolled in from the harbour with the veil of white mist offering cover for my evil deed. Internal...
Call it being clever, call it skill or call it wit – he had a way of picking words that always seemed to fit. He started writing stories, then progressed to rhyme and verse with words that sparked emotion – some for better, some for worse. Declared a ‘natural poet’, since he had no dossier – his writing lacked the polish that a scholar might portray. He had no formal training, used his own inherent style to capture tragic...
(This was written several months ago) Today my father told me I shouldn't write at night anymore. That, unless it was a journal, I should stop writing; because all the stories I write I alone see. This broke my heart. I rarely say this, but, my dad is wrong. Yes, I write at night. Why? It's simple. The mind comes alive at night. in the darkness my mind begins to turn faster, see things clearer. Ideas are whispered from my...
ITS primal fear, always being overshadowed by its peers and its constant act at moulding and remoulding itself into likeable bits. Everything and just about everything about IT is volatile and malleable in a way that nothing of itself remains in its existence. People see IT and think it reminds them of..mmmm…maybe…that one…or this one…of him…and her...but even the audience is quite unable to put their finger on what it ac...
