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A Murderer For sure-
BY AMBER WOOLF
‘Sue its five o’clock, when are you going? You’ll be late!’ Sues’ Mum said worriedly leaning through the bathroom door.
‘Just finishing.’ Sue reassured, pulling her golden hair into a hurried ponytail. Grabbing her bag from the bathroom counter, she made for a quick escape past her Mum, who was standing with her arms crossed in the doorway.
‘Got your cell phone?’ She quizzed.
‘Of course.’
‘Is it charged up?’
‘What is this, twenty questions?’ Sue grinned, pushing past her Mum.
Throwing open the front door, Sue grinned to herself. Awaiting her on the driveway was Sues’ eighteenth birthday present; a very old pink car, The kind people use for demolition Derbies. This cars not going anywhere near a derby, Sue promised quietly. Yanking open the door, Sue sat proudly in the drivers’ seat, before pulling the door back in with a bang. With a wave to her Mum, the engine started - a roar of independence.
The Dwarf-like car ate up the driveway, bringing Sue to the main Country road, the road that led strait to the city. Winding down the window with her free hand, the wind swept her hair, pushing over her eyes. Laughing, Sue threw one arm out the window, letting the cold wind turn her skin numb.
Dressed in a white jersey and a flowery skirt, Sues’ best friend Gemma waited by her driveway, her cell phone in one hand and a worried look upon her normally cheerful face. Sue braked fast just metres from her friend.
‘Your late!’ Gemma cried, before flinging herself into the passengers’ seat and sitting her bag on the dashboard.
‘Chill Jill.’ Sue joked, laughing.
‘Gosh are these new seat covers?’ Gemma enthused as the car started moving, rubbing the furry seat covers with one hand.
‘Yup.’ Sue laughed. Gemma had a way of saying “Gosh” that somehow resembled the voice of a sixty-year-old.
Switching the radio on with one hand and wishing the car had a CD player, amplified music sounded from the cars’ small speakers, the beats thundering from the speakers like detonating bombs.
‘Ooh! I love this song!’ Gemma cried, turning the volume even louder.
Laughing, the girls joined in the chorus, singing so loud they blocked out the lead singers’ voice completely. Eventually the song ended, and Sue turned the music right down, and a quiet kind of heaviness filled the small car.
‘I hope the movies good.’ Gemma said thinking of the movie they were going to go see.
‘Oh it will be,’ Sue reassured, ‘Have you read the book?’
Gemma shook her head.
‘You should always read the book before you see the movie.’
‘Why?’ Gemma wondered aloud.
‘Because… Hey look! Hitchhiker!’ Sue said, changing the subject completely.
Standing on the side of the quiet country road, a man was standing next to a broken down car, its bonnet held up with a stick from the side of the road. He looked annoyed and worried, with one thumb held out patiently in front of him, a desperate request for help. As the car got closer, a glint of hope filled his dark brown eyes.
‘Don’t stop Sue,’ Gemma said quickly, ‘He’s a murderer for sure.’
‘Relax, I wasn’t going to.’ Sue laughed.
‘Sorry, no room!’ Sue yelled to the hitchhiker out the open window as they passed him, even though the backseat was obviously bare. As Sue wound the window back up, the girls laughed.
‘Nice.’ Gemma grinned.
‘I know I am.’ Sue said smugly, ‘Do you remember what I said to Daniel Chains at primary School? He was asking for it.’
Gemma gasped.
‘Your awful!’ She cried, laughing hard.
‘Shocking.’ Sue agreed.
The girls laughed, sharing stories from primary school, each story funnier than the last.
‘Do you remember our room two teacher?’ Sue laughed, ‘and he had a pink pencil case!’
‘What happened?’ Gemma panicked.
‘Well the pencil case was pink, and…’
‘No, the car!’
Sue gasped. Slowly the car decelerated, ceasing the girls laughing. Sue turned it onto the grass verge, where it stopped completely. Only the radio kept playing, its’ music insignificant.
‘I’m out.’ Sue said, as if she didn’t believe her own words.
‘Out of what?’
‘Petrol.’ Sue gulped, ‘I forgot to check.’
Switching off the radio, Sue bounded out of the car, slamming the door behind her. Some curious sheep ran away from the fence at the sound of the door shutting, their hooves thundering against the dry summer ground, the only noise on the deserted road. Gemma climbed out, squinting into the sun, her white jersey reflecting the suns’ rays like a mirror reflects an image. Suddenly, Sue re-opened the door, making a grab for her bag. Pulling her cell phone from it, she saw its’ screen, empty and lifeless.
‘Flat.’ She exclaimed, ‘Gemma, try and call your Mum.’
Gemma found her bag, and shadowing her cell phones’ screen from the sun, gave Sue an apologetic look.
‘No battery left. It’s dead.’
The two girls stood, pondering what to do.
‘Do you have petrol in the boot?’ Gemma asked hopefully.
‘Nope.’
Far away on the horizon of the road, a glimmer caught Sues’ eye. A car. Reluctantly, she stuck her thumb out, as desperate and as worried looking as the hitchhiker they had passed earlier.
As the man and the woman in the approaching car got closer, they saw Sue with her thumb out, her pink car motionless on the dry summer grass.
‘Don’t stop hun,’ the woman said to her husband, ‘She’s a murderer for sure.’
Jungle riot
By Amber Woolf
We were in a jungle. A wild, untamed piece of land that only we had ever endured. Around us were the common animal noises, only angrier, more ferocious than normal jungle animals. These animals were out of control, attacking each other, chasing each other between trees, while making their ferocious animal sounds. Conquering this amazing, life-threatening journey would make our names appear on websites and in newspapers all over the world. I could picture the headlines now; “Brave trio attacks spontaneous expedition.” Or “Lives risked during dramatic jungle journey”.
Below us, the ground would rumble from the force of bodies being flung to the ground. Flares of light from between the towering tree leaves lit the uneven ground in front of us, showing the dirty jungle floor. Around us, trees shook and bushes rustled, keeping dangerous predators from our view. Occasionally, nuts would fall from the swaying branches above us, hitting us like tiny grenades. Would they explode and blow us into millions of tiny pieces? Anything seemed possible in this unpredictable land.
All around us were frightening noises, Growling, hissing, and the occasional rip of animal flesh. There was no doubt about it, this jungle was out of control.
The animals were having a party, A violent jubilee. Tearing hungrily around the jungle in a slaughtering frenzy, they squawked, shrieked, and bellowed at each other, their voices howling through the trees, echoing angrily. Motoring over the forest floor at maximum speed, the animals kicked up clouds of dust. The creatures flung objects at each other, branches, rocks, and fruit flew in every other direction. Hanging from branches, flinging themselves over or through bushes, the animals continued their sinful feast.
Suddenly all the animals skidded to a halt. There was a loud rustling, a slight movement in one of the bushes. Every beady eye in the forest turned to face the bush, awaiting the creature that had made the rustling noise. A silence so quiet you could hear a heart beat had filled the forest, ceasing the animals’ barbarous celebration. Emerging from the bushes, a dark figure rose from the undergrowth, a black silhouette against the treetops, casting a shadow over the other animals, which were now scattering back to their desks one by one.
‘Enough of that running!’ Our maths teacher exclaimed, entering the room.
Forgotten
By Amber Woolf
After the loud, aggressive noises of the classroom, a quiet, enclosed school toilet seemed the perfect place to be to Lia. Pushing the toilets cover over the seat with a slam, she sat down, resting her head on the hard wall behind her. On the light blue swinging door in front of her, Lia read the numerous insults scratched into the wood with compasses, or permanently written on by vivid. ‘Jess 4 Fabian’ and ‘Filthy Cow’ were fairly common, but every now and then a rude poem or rhyme caught Lia’s eye. Just above the locked door handle, ‘Sally and Tina, Best Friends Forever’ was written inside a soft pink heart. Suddenly Lia’s attention was drawn away from the graffiti and back to why she had come all-alone to the toilets in the first place.
High school. It hadn’t turned out quite the way Lia had expected. At first it had been great fun, meeting new people and getting dressed in a brand new uniform every morning, but now Lia looked down at her forest green skirt in disgust. Reality had hit her like a big yellow school bus, defeating Lias’ dreams forever. The magic and excitement of college had left Lia dull subdue, much like the colors in her skirt, fading forever after their first wash in the washing machine.
Lia bit her lip, telling herself repeatedly over and over again to just forget her friends, forget everything…
Suddenly Lia’s forgetting was interrupted, as two loud voices shrieked and laughed as two people invaded the toilets. Behind Lia’s toilet door, she could hear exactly what they were talking about, more importantly, WHO they were.
The two girls were the same age as Lia, and their shrill voices howled and shrieked through the silence, disrupting Lias’ thoughts. Lia instantly recognized the loudest voice, high and girly like someone imitating a Barbie doll. It was Sarah, Lia’s best friend. ‘Used to be best friend,’ Lia reminded herself. Ever since Sarah and Lia had started college and gotten into different classes, the girls had started drifting further and further apart. Sometimes it almost seemed as if Sarah would rather be with Jess, or Georgia, or Tara – the list went on and on.
Lia could still remember their first day at school, before Sarah changed. Before she went weird.
“We’ll meet here every lunchtime,” Sarah’s voice said in Lia’s head, sounding pure and real, as if she was standing right next to her, a ghost in Lia’s imagination. Now, the shrill girly voice broke through Lia’s thoughts.
“Hey, Jess, we should so go and annoy Louise and Holly.”
“Oh my gosh, that’s a great idea!”
“Okay, lets go!” Sarah’s voice echoed around the toilets. The sound of two pairs of feet slamming against the lino got fainter and fainter as the two girls fled the toilets.
Lia sighed. Maybe if Sarah hadn’t made so many great new friends when they got to college she wouldn’t have ended up waiting alone on the old school bench for Sarah to turn up. Did Sarah even realize Lia came to the school toilets every lunchtime by herself? Lia closed her eyes. She felt so… forgotten.
She felt anger bubbling up inside her like boiled water. Why couldn’t Sarah have just one or two close friends, rather than a whole fan club? This wasn’t how college had meant to turn out at all, never ever had Lia imagined it like this.
Lia knew she had to find some kind of way to make new friends, but no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t forget how much Sarah had changed – how she had left Lia to sit with some other girls every lunchtime, just thinking about it made Lia feel lonely. Not a loneliness kind of lonely, but an empty, deep feeling inside that wouldn’t go away no matter how late Lia stayed awake each night urging it to go away. Sometimes, just sometimes, the feeling would disappear and she would wake up feeling happy, like all her problems had vanished like her tiredness the night before. Then, she would sit up and look around her morning-lit bedroom, her collection of diaries and scrapbooks in order of the made she had made them, sitting tidily on their shelf. Nestled between them was the tiny green notebook, its spine sticking out innocently, and suddenly Lia would remember the nightmare of college – remember everything.
The book. Lia’s fumbling hands un-zipped her school bag as if on autodrive, and reluctantly, removed the book from her school bag. Lying one hand on its’ cold cover, Lia hesitated. Did she really want to do this?
No, Lia told herself, I don’t want to forget, when really she knew she did more than anything else. Wanted to finally overcome her loneliness and find the confidence to make new friends. Turning its’ worn pages with shaking fingers, years of memories came flooding back.
Pictures. Pictures of Sarah and Lia going swimming, skiing, horseback riding. Each page was filled with moments from everything the girls had ever done together. Holidays, stories they had written together, and funny drawings.
Lia’s eyes stung as her eyes took in the notebook’s pages for the last time, all her memories. On one page Sarah’s smile would beam out, her braces sparkling in the sun like tiny diamonds. Tickets from movies they had seen together, that had left them the last two people in the cinema, dabbing their eyes with tissues. Dockets from buying bags of lollies for sleepovers that they had stayed up all night at, telling each other their secrets and playing truth or dare. Turning the page, Lia held her breath as a zoo tiger leapt out of the photo at her, so real she could almost feel its warm breath on her skin.
Slamming the book closed, Lia threw the tiny book into the toilet, and before she could change her mind, pushed the flush button on the top of the toilet. All her memories, gone in the crashing waves of the toilet bowl forever, swirling around in a sea of waste to the forgotten world of sewage. Forgotten.
The Secret
By Amber Woolf
The herd of horses stood soundlessly in the grassy meadow. Waiting and listening, as quiet and as the soundless night around them. Beside them, the sea glimmered silently, as if the water was also waiting. The tempting smell of fresh grass beckoned for the horses to eat, but the horses ignored its tempting smell in the night air. No breeze fanned the horses’ manes, or made the grass whisper.
The horses stood, awaiting the arrival of their friends. There was that still feeling in the air, the silence in the waves. The eerie twinkle of the stars. Yes, they would come tonight. Their secret.
Movement. The stallion raised his head higher, his ears turning like satellite dishes as he scanned the meadow for the source of the noise. The mares heard it too. Each head was raised higher; each ear pricked.
A wave hit the shore, spreading over the sand like margarine on bread. The stillness had been replaced with wave after wave of glimmering water, each louder and more promising than the last. The wind blew also, pushing the grass hard against the soil in gusts of cool, fresh air. Two high-pitched whinnies erupted over the meadow, piercing and amplified with the wind. The first being a squealing yet graceful call, restricted by the soft waves of seawater above the caller. The second call came from above the herd. More powerful, more definite than the first. The herd poured out of their compact huddle, rearing, bucking and squealing.
They had come.
Happily, the herd danced in the moonlight. Manes were tossed and tails bannered out behind them as they bounded over the grassy meadow. Then as if they were in a well-practiced dance performance, the horses stopped to listen once again. Every ear pricked, every eye glistening, the horses stood once again.
Out of the crashing waves rose several dark figures, springing from the waves like the water was flinging them from beneath it. They would dive, head first into the tide, then it would spit them out again, sending them in perfect arches through the air. Silhouetted against the glowing night sky, the sea horses looked like dolphins with horse heads, diving and splashing gracefully towards the shore, their silvery manes silver and silk-like.
Like eagles soaring overhead, several winged horses appeared above the herd, diving and maneuvering like hawks in action. Their large feathery wings cast shadows over the herds’ paddock, blocking out the starry sky above. They kept their hooves tucked in tight beneath them like the wheels on an airplane, like paper planes in a classroom, they flew effortlessly through the air, despite their size. Their wings made little noise, apart from a whistling, whispering noise made by their strong feathers as they flew with pure ease above the herd.
Whinnies flooded the meadow like calls for help from a burning hospital as the horses greeted one another. Stallions rear, mares squeal, and foals buck as their friends join in their midnight dance. The pound of hooves, the soar of wings, and the splash of slithery tails create a symphony of happiness. The ground horses rear as a winged horse flys above, playfully attempting to touch the horse above. Eyes wide and sparkling, the horses that don’t fear the water splash in next to their scaly relatives.
A single whinny disrupted the horses’ gathering. The winged stallion had called his friends, collecting his herd for the long fly home. Reluctantly, the winged horses became air born once again, lifting into the air as if gravity had ceased to exist. They nickered good-byes to their friends, and the meadow erupted again with the sound of conversation. A gentle flowing call arose from the water, as the sea horses’ stallion called his herd, who dived and sprang gracefully beneath the crashing waves.
The ground horses remained. The brave ones who had swam with the water horses climbed out of the cold water, shaking the salty water from their manes, jealous of their friends’ inborn talent to resist water. They watched their friends disappear beneath the waves and over the horizon, disappointed that their reunion had ended so soon.
The meadow was silent once again.
Until next time…
(just a bit of writing I wrote at the start of the year. Its part of a really long story, but I really liked this bit especially.)
The house was silent after Mr and mrs Addington went to bed.
Anathema quickly became enclosed in an effigy of peace, peace untouched by the sound. There was no sound. No sound other than the creeks made by the swaying bones of the house, ghostly noises that could be twisted by the imagination to become something made by something entirely different to what they were really made by. Creeks in the floorboards became footsteps in Anathema at night time. Branches against windows became long with nails on the blackboard like surface. The whistling of the wind became whispers of sad lonely spirits, awaiting an answer. And the darkness. The darkness became endless. Like all of Anathema had been shut in a shoe-box, and no one would ever lift the lid and reveal what was inside ever again. Like Anathema was just a black empty room... a room with no walls.
30/04/08: …we close our eyes to see We close our eyes to see. Swept away into the darkest of fields, the bleakest of feelings, the most terrifying of secrets. Suddenly we are in light. We are not in the real world, we are beautiful. The left over thoughts of our daytime send us flying to other places. Feelings of sadness as we fall send us to sorrowful funerals, amongst the sweetest of elegies. Feelings of guilt as we fall see us honest once again. Feelings of uncertainty or worry push us deep down into the alleyways of imagination, places we would rather forget about as we rise. Places that terrify us and feelings that overwhelm and confuse us. Secrets reveal themselves and we wrap our hands softly around them, revolutionizing. Whispers and the shrillest of cries hold us, taunt us, tell us what we need to know. And suddenly, we know everything. The mist of clandestine has cleared to show us the unseen hills beyond. What brought us to this place? Why are we here? Who are these people? Those familiar faces are somehow not similar anymore. Familiarity has lost its similarity. Clarity has lost its emotion. We feel nothing; what we feel somehow feels unreal. Nothing is real. So who are these people? What is this place? Questions ripple the calmest of seas … and suddenly we know everything. We question, we observe, we explore, and suddenly we know everything. Somehow, we know everything. We awake. We arise. We open our eyes. Sweet light has filled the room. And suddenly, we know nothing. Dear Miss Gillaly: This story is exactly as I have written it. I haven't changed this last story at all because I really liked all of it and it is really special and I didn’t want to change any of it because I was afraid of ruining it. If you have any ideas for any of it then I would be really interested. Thank you!!
18/04/08: A SECRET WORLD Standing alone in a field of imagination, the observer stood complete and able, and yet invisible. Standing where no one else had ever been, the world that the observer had created was fully their own. Detail like no other surrounded the observer, soft like silk. The observer stood, eyes tightly closed to see the events before them, creating them, always one step ahead. In one shaky hand, the observer, held a thin, cold key in their fingertips, the key to a secret world. A terrifying, chilling world. Everything was coming to an end. The observer, the onlooker of the happenings could only watch as the events before them took place, one after another, in perfect sequence. The onlooker felt tense, and their hands were tingling like they do after you pat a cat the wrong way, against the flow of luxurious fur. Before their eyes, the story was unraveling. Things were happening, happening fast and quick, which only added to the climax. The ultimate climax; the final conflict. The happenings that would top off everything. Prodding and turning the events in their mind, the onlooker twisted the words until they were as smooth as the flattest sea. To suit their liking, the observer was molding the events like clay. Before them, the shards of excitement came together in mind – forming perfection. The excitement was coming to an end. Slowly, the thrills descended. The observer began to relax a little. Everything was becoming easier now – more in control. They could control the happenings, the power flowing from their fingertips like magical bursts of power … some kind of connection from the fingers to the mind. Imagination to the world that lay heavily around them. Slowly, a resolution found its way into the observers’ mind. Unplanned, and yet anticipated. It was now before them, loosening the heat of the climax, finishing what had been started. Knots in the rope were untying themselves, the observer could only sit and watch as the Ferris wheel of excitement slowly spun to a stop. Intensity was fading. A happy, meaningful end. A sad end, but a well planned one. Like an old friend was slowly dying, and the observer had been given the job of planning the funeral. The observer couldn’t quite believe that it was all coming to an end. All the time spent on this journey, and it was all coming to a shallow close. The observer could end it all any time they wanted, but something dragged them on – pulled them deeper into the story before them.All of what they had seen, heard, smelt, felt and lived was coming to an end … and they could only watch. The flame went out as the last word was written. A meaningless scrawl on the page. The writer closed the notebook shut. The secret world was gone. In one shaky hand, the writers pen, the key to the secret world, burned the writers fingertips. The writer stood and stretched. The bed was made next to them; and the time was past twelve. They couldn’t quite believe their story had taken so long to write. Months of sitting in bed every night writing, like some kind of anti-social nocturnal notebook freak. But it was all worth it. And as the writer lay down on the velvet soft bed and turned off the light, the ceiling danced with the shadows of the words fresh from the writers mind, the darkness lit with the excitement of writing. But there was always tomorrow. And suddenly the flame lit inside of the writers mind again, because already the writers mind was dancing with ideas for their next story … another 76,000 words danced in the writers mind, and they would until they could be released onto paper … but that would have to wait until the morning… The writers’ eyes closed. Beneath a lucid dream, the writer lived out their stories. They were their characters. Their characters were them. The places were their own, and the writer slept in comfort knowing that there was always a secret world awaiting them, a world that no one else knew of.
DON’T LEAVE ME HERE I am falling. Falling beneath hidden thoughts, forgotten dreams. Falling slowly like an autumn leaf down to the secret world below. Softly and gently through a nonexistent breeze. All is still. Around me, thick darkness, night-like black lies unmoving. I am going to that place beyond the lonely … I know that no one will follow me. I land on a carpet of grass. Cold grass that feels somehow warm, caring.A soft wind blows from the west, causing it to rustle slightly. The west. The direction of the dead. The direction of the missing. The direction of the loved ones that love no more. The wind blows longingly over the forgotten landscape. It blows whatever remains, but I stay standing. I realize that I am alone, but as soon as I think that, I know that it isn't true anymore. The wind blows lovingly over the forgotten landscape, and I know that I am not alone. I hear voices. Their voices. They speak of love and promises and good times, but their voices show no excitement. Excitement is dead. I hear their fading voices, and then I see faces. Face after face of broken hearts, forgotten promises. Fire-lit faces of icy pallor; they show nothing. Just a greetful smile as they see me. People I once knew and people that once knew me. They flash before my eyes, and I feel their happiness. Behind their shadowed faces is the rapture that I have long forgotten. And suddenly I know that they are happy where they are. Suddenly I realize that happiness has risen form their only fear … sorrow. Suddenly I realize that I want to be there with them. As soon as I have thought that crushing thought, the faces disappear. There are no whispers, no eyes in the darkness. The ones I once knew have gone. I don’t want to go. But I must. The hands that dropped me here now are forcing me from the ground again. I am gliding, rising from the darkness. But I don’t want to go. Suddenly I am in light again. Around me, I see faces … people. But familiarity has gone. I hardly know these people. Do they know me? I fight to recognize them, and they laugh at me. Their laughter kills me. Their light, their angry, uncaring faces, their laughter drowns me. I can’t escape it. Don’t leave me here, I whisper. All happiness drains away. I am not satisfied with this life of lies anymore. I need to get out. Need to see those that have left me again. To be with them, to talk to them. But I know that they are gone. They are gone and there was nothing I could do to stop them closing the door between us. The door locked itself, blocking the lonely from the rest of the world. Blocking the lonely from the west. The direction of the dead, the missing, and the lost loved ones. I live in sickening brightness and long for thew day when I can open that door. The door that will let me be with the lost ones, the forgotten ones. We have been left behind. Left behind in this world that never breathes. The world of the angry, the ugly, and the forgotten. We’ve been forgotten. One day, when our sorrow wins its war, we will leave. We will blow softly to that hidden place beyond the lonely. We will laugh again. We will see all those that we have lost, and somehow, it will seem that we never, ever said our good-byes. Until then, we live in a world that never breathes. Until then, we can only dream of those that have left us. Until then, we live in a world that never breathes. We have been left behind.
08/05/08
It wont be alright
I was yours for the taking. I had been running on the lonely road. Running somewhere. The lonely road they called it, but how can roads be called lonely if they are homes to one of our bleakest creations? A creation like no other. The creation that never sleeps. It haunts our roads, filling their silence with the screech of tyres and screaming brakes. It fills our landscapes with light-so unnatural. The creation that we allow to roam the highways. The creation that killed me. You in the drivers seat, you didn’t care. You never told. I was left to rot away into the darkness, into the shame. ”It wont be alright” were your last words to me. …then you killed me. My body got taken away, but I'm still here. Still the same. Still waiting. Sometimes I still see the same bright lights, and once, the exact same animal that killed me. I jumped in front of you, trying to stop you, to make you understand … but you kept driving. Right through me. I knew I had been there, but when you’re alone on a lonely road and you’re dead, you forget that people cant touch you. Maybe, before you passed through, you saw my ghostly figure in the middle of the road. Perhaps you saw my seething eyes. I had no reflection, but I knew that my eyes shone revenge. Walking soundlessly, I tread this icy road and I know that I have been forgotten. You left me here. I tread this icy toad and I know that no one will ever understand. Suddnely I see those same white-fire eyes, shining softly through the black. I recognize those night-penetrating eyes … you never EVER forget the eyes that killed you. Ever. And now I'm running again. I see you on the side of the road before me, your creation pulled over. You are dimly lit, and I see you checking the tires. You didn’t hear me approach you. No one ever heard me. I am standing behind you as you lean down to check the tires once again. I am the cool breeze on your neck, the shudder down your spine. I remember you. Do you remember me? My icy hands close over your eyes and you stiffen. My touch sends icy waves throughout your body. I notice your quickening of breaths and, creating vanilla clouds in the darkness, and I feel your fear. I feel your fear, and I know for certain that you are mine for the taking. I lean closer. “It won’t be alright.” I whisper. You are mine for the taking. I take you and isolate you from the rest of the world. You are now like me. Finally you can feel my pain. Your creation stays humming on the side of the road, headlights staring for hours before it finally runs flat. It is as dead as you and me. You are mine. Together we tread the highway – the partners of death. It was a fair exchange. You killed me and I killed you. What can I say? You were mine for the taking.
Mine for the taking
I was yours for the taking. I had been running on the lonely road – somewhere. The lonely road, they called it, but how can lonely roads be the home to one of our bleakest creations? A creation like no other. The creation that never sleeps. It haunts our roads, filling their silence with the screech of tires and screaming brakes. It fills our landscapes with light so unnatural. The creation that we allow to roam the highways. The creation that killed me. Nobody came to find me. You in the drivers seat, you didn’t care. You never told. I was left to rot away into the darkness, into the shame.“It wont be alright.” Were your last words to me. Then you killed me. But I'm still here. Still the same. Sometimes I still see the same bright headlights, and once, the exact same animal that killed me. I jumped in front of you, trying to stop you, make you understand … but you kept driving. Right through me. I knew I had been there, but when you’re alone on a lonely road and you’re dead, you forget that people cant touch you. Maybe, before you passed through, you saw my ghostly figure in the middle of the road. Perhaps you saw my seething eyes. I had no reflection; but I knew that my eyes shone revenge. Walking soundlessly, I tread this icy road and know that no one will ever understand. Suddenly see those same white-fire eyes, shining softly through the black. I recognize those night-penetrating eyes … you never ever forget the eyes of the one who killed you. And now I'm running again. I see you on the side of the road before me, your creation purring silently on the side of the road. All is dimly lit, and I see you checking the tires. You don’t hear me as I approach you. No one ever heard me. I am standing behind you as you lean down to check the tires once again. I am the cool breeze on the back of your neck, the shudder down your spine. I remember you. Do you remember me? My icy hands close over your eyes and you stiffen. My touch sends ice-like waves throughout your body. I notice your quickening of breaths, creating vanilla clouds in the darkness. I feel your fear. Do you feel mine? I feel your fear and I know for sure that you are mine for the taking. I lean closer. “It won’t be alright.” I whisper. You are mine for the taking. I take you and isolate you from the rest of the world. You are now like me; always here, and yet one world away. Finally you can feel my pain. Your creation stays humming on the side of the road, headlights staring for hours before it runs flat. It is as dead as you and me. You are mine. Together we tread the highway, the partners of death. It was a fair exchange. You killed me and I killed you. What can I say? You were mine for the taking.
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A Murderer For sure-
BY AMBER WOOLF
‘Sue its five o’clock, when are you going? You’ll be late!’ Sues’ Mum said worriedly leaning through the bathroom door.
‘Just finishing.’ Sue reassured, pulling her golden hair into a hurried ponytail. Grabbing her bag from the bathroom counter, she made for a quick escape past her Mum, who was standing with her arms crossed in the doorway.
‘Got your cell phone?’ She quizzed.
‘Of course.’
‘Is it charged up?’
‘What is this, twenty questions?’ Sue grinned, pushing past her Mum.
Throwing open the front door, Sue grinned to herself. Awaiting her on the driveway was Sues’ eighteenth birthday present; a very old pink car, The kind people use for demolition Derbies. This cars not going anywhere near a derby, Sue promised quietly. Yanking open the door, Sue sat proudly in the drivers’ seat, before pulling the door back in with a bang. With a wave to her Mum, the engine started - a roar of independence.
The Dwarf-like car ate up the driveway, bringing Sue to the main Country road, the road that led strait to the city. Winding down the window with her free hand, the wind swept her hair, pushing over her eyes. Laughing, Sue threw one arm out the window, letting the cold wind turn her skin numb.
Dressed in a white jersey and a flowery skirt, Sues’ best friend Gemma waited by her driveway, her cell phone in one hand and a worried look upon her normally cheerful face. Sue braked fast just metres from her friend.
‘Your late!’ Gemma cried, before flinging herself into the passengers’ seat and sitting her bag on the dashboard.
‘Chill Jill.’ Sue joked, laughing.
‘Gosh are these new seat covers?’ Gemma enthused as the car started moving, rubbing the furry seat covers with one hand.
‘Yup.’ Sue laughed. Gemma had a way of saying “Gosh” that somehow resembled the voice of a sixty-year-old.
Switching the radio on with one hand and wishing the car had a CD player, amplified music sounded from the cars’ small speakers, the beats thundering from the speakers like detonating bombs.
‘Ooh! I love this song!’ Gemma cried, turning the volume even louder.
Laughing, the girls joined in the chorus, singing so loud they blocked out the lead singers’ voice completely. Eventually the song ended, and Sue turned the music right down, and a quiet kind of heaviness filled the small car.
‘I hope the movies good.’ Gemma said thinking of the movie they were going to go see.
‘Oh it will be,’ Sue reassured, ‘Have you read the book?’
Gemma shook her head.
‘You should always read the book before you see the movie.’
‘Why?’ Gemma wondered aloud.
‘Because… Hey look! Hitchhiker!’ Sue said, changing the subject completely.
Standing on the side of the quiet country road, a man was standing next to a broken down car, its bonnet held up with a stick from the side of the road. He looked annoyed and worried, with one thumb held out patiently in front of him, a desperate request for help. As the car got closer, a glint of hope filled his dark brown eyes.
‘Don’t stop Sue,’ Gemma said quickly, ‘He’s a murderer for sure.’
‘Relax, I wasn’t going to.’ Sue laughed.
‘Sorry, no room!’ Sue yelled to the hitchhiker out the open window as they passed him, even though the backseat was obviously bare. As Sue wound the window back up, the girls laughed.
‘Nice.’ Gemma grinned.
‘I know I am.’ Sue said smugly, ‘Do you remember what I said to Daniel Chains at primary School? He was asking for it.’
Gemma gasped.
‘Your awful!’ She cried, laughing hard.
‘Shocking.’ Sue agreed.
The girls laughed, sharing stories from primary school, each story funnier than the last.
‘Do you remember our room two teacher?’ Sue laughed, ‘and he had a pink pencil case!’
‘What happened?’ Gemma panicked.
‘Well the pencil case was pink, and…’
‘No, the car!’
Sue gasped. Slowly the car decelerated, ceasing the girls laughing. Sue turned it onto the grass verge, where it stopped completely. Only the radio kept playing, its’ music insignificant.
‘I’m out.’ Sue said, as if she didn’t believe her own words.
‘Out of what?’
‘Petrol.’ Sue gulped, ‘I forgot to check.’
Switching off the radio, Sue bounded out of the car, slamming the door behind her. Some curious sheep ran away from the fence at the sound of the door shutting, their hooves thundering against the dry summer ground, the only noise on the deserted road. Gemma climbed out, squinting into the sun, her white jersey reflecting the suns’ rays like a mirror reflects an image. Suddenly, Sue re-opened the door, making a grab for her bag. Pulling her cell phone from it, she saw its’ screen, empty and lifeless.
‘Flat.’ She exclaimed, ‘Gemma, try and call your Mum.’
Gemma found her bag, and shadowing her cell phones’ screen from the sun, gave Sue an apologetic look.
‘No battery left. It’s dead.’
The two girls stood, pondering what to do.
‘Do you have petrol in the boot?’ Gemma asked hopefully.
‘Nope.’
Far away on the horizon of the road, a glimmer caught Sues’ eye. A car. Reluctantly, she stuck her thumb out, as desperate and as worried looking as the hitchhiker they had passed earlier.
As the man and the woman in the approaching car got closer, they saw Sue with her thumb out, her pink car motionless on the dry summer grass.
‘Don’t stop hun,’ the woman said to her husband, ‘She’s a murderer for sure.’
Jungle riot
By Amber Woolf
We were in a jungle. A wild, untamed piece of land that only we had ever endured. Around us were the common animal noises, only angrier, more ferocious than normal jungle animals. These animals were out of control, attacking each other, chasing each other between trees, while making their ferocious animal sounds. Conquering this amazing, life-threatening journey would make our names appear on websites and in newspapers all over the world. I could picture the headlines now; “Brave trio attacks spontaneous expedition.” Or “Lives risked during dramatic jungle journey”.
Below us, the ground would rumble from the force of bodies being flung to the ground. Flares of light from between the towering tree leaves lit the uneven ground in front of us, showing the dirty jungle floor. Around us, trees shook and bushes rustled, keeping dangerous predators from our view. Occasionally, nuts would fall from the swaying branches above us, hitting us like tiny grenades. Would they explode and blow us into millions of tiny pieces? Anything seemed possible in this unpredictable land.
All around us were frightening noises, Growling, hissing, and the occasional rip of animal flesh. There was no doubt about it, this jungle was out of control.
The animals were having a party, A violent jubilee. Tearing hungrily around the jungle in a slaughtering frenzy, they squawked, shrieked, and bellowed at each other, their voices howling through the trees, echoing angrily. Motoring over the forest floor at maximum speed, the animals kicked up clouds of dust. The creatures flung objects at each other, branches, rocks, and fruit flew in every other direction. Hanging from branches, flinging themselves over or through bushes, the animals continued their sinful feast.
Suddenly all the animals skidded to a halt. There was a loud rustling, a slight movement in one of the bushes. Every beady eye in the forest turned to face the bush, awaiting the creature that had made the rustling noise. A silence so quiet you could hear a heart beat had filled the forest, ceasing the animals’ barbarous celebration. Emerging from the bushes, a dark figure rose from the undergrowth, a black silhouette against the treetops, casting a shadow over the other animals, which were now scattering back to their desks one by one.
‘Enough of that running!’ Our maths teacher exclaimed, entering the room.
Forgotten
By Amber WoolfAfter the loud, aggressive noises of the classroom, a quiet, enclosed school toilet seemed the perfect place to be to Lia. Pushing the toilets cover over the seat with a slam, she sat down, resting her head on the hard wall behind her. On the light blue swinging door in front of her, Lia read the numerous insults scratched into the wood with compasses, or permanently written on by vivid. ‘Jess 4 Fabian’ and ‘Filthy Cow’ were fairly common, but every now and then a rude poem or rhyme caught Lia’s eye. Just above the locked door handle, ‘Sally and Tina, Best Friends Forever’ was written inside a soft pink heart. Suddenly Lia’s attention was drawn away from the graffiti and back to why she had come all-alone to the toilets in the first place.
High school. It hadn’t turned out quite the way Lia had expected. At first it had been great fun, meeting new people and getting dressed in a brand new uniform every morning, but now Lia looked down at her forest green skirt in disgust. Reality had hit her like a big yellow school bus, defeating Lias’ dreams forever. The magic and excitement of college had left Lia dull subdue, much like the colors in her skirt, fading forever after their first wash in the washing machine.
Lia bit her lip, telling herself repeatedly over and over again to just forget her friends, forget everything…
Suddenly Lia’s forgetting was interrupted, as two loud voices shrieked and laughed as two people invaded the toilets. Behind Lia’s toilet door, she could hear exactly what they were talking about, more importantly, WHO they were.
The two girls were the same age as Lia, and their shrill voices howled and shrieked through the silence, disrupting Lias’ thoughts. Lia instantly recognized the loudest voice, high and girly like someone imitating a Barbie doll. It was Sarah, Lia’s best friend. ‘Used to be best friend,’ Lia reminded herself. Ever since Sarah and Lia had started college and gotten into different classes, the girls had started drifting further and further apart. Sometimes it almost seemed as if Sarah would rather be with Jess, or Georgia, or Tara – the list went on and on.
Lia could still remember their first day at school, before Sarah changed. Before she went weird.
“We’ll meet here every lunchtime,” Sarah’s voice said in Lia’s head, sounding pure and real, as if she was standing right next to her, a ghost in Lia’s imagination. Now, the shrill girly voice broke through Lia’s thoughts.
“Hey, Jess, we should so go and annoy Louise and Holly.”
“Oh my gosh, that’s a great idea!”
“Okay, lets go!” Sarah’s voice echoed around the toilets. The sound of two pairs of feet slamming against the lino got fainter and fainter as the two girls fled the toilets.
Lia sighed. Maybe if Sarah hadn’t made so many great new friends when they got to college she wouldn’t have ended up waiting alone on the old school bench for Sarah to turn up. Did Sarah even realize Lia came to the school toilets every lunchtime by herself? Lia closed her eyes. She felt so… forgotten.
She felt anger bubbling up inside her like boiled water. Why couldn’t Sarah have just one or two close friends, rather than a whole fan club? This wasn’t how college had meant to turn out at all, never ever had Lia imagined it like this.
Lia knew she had to find some kind of way to make new friends, but no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t forget how much Sarah had changed – how she had left Lia to sit with some other girls every lunchtime, just thinking about it made Lia feel lonely. Not a loneliness kind of lonely, but an empty, deep feeling inside that wouldn’t go away no matter how late Lia stayed awake each night urging it to go away. Sometimes, just sometimes, the feeling would disappear and she would wake up feeling happy, like all her problems had vanished like her tiredness the night before. Then, she would sit up and look around her morning-lit bedroom, her collection of diaries and scrapbooks in order of the made she had made them, sitting tidily on their shelf. Nestled between them was the tiny green notebook, its spine sticking out innocently, and suddenly Lia would remember the nightmare of college – remember everything.
The book. Lia’s fumbling hands un-zipped her school bag as if on autodrive, and reluctantly, removed the book from her school bag. Lying one hand on its’ cold cover, Lia hesitated. Did she really want to do this?
No, Lia told herself, I don’t want to forget, when really she knew she did more than anything else. Wanted to finally overcome her loneliness and find the confidence to make new friends. Turning its’ worn pages with shaking fingers, years of memories came flooding back.
Pictures. Pictures of Sarah and Lia going swimming, skiing, horseback riding. Each page was filled with moments from everything the girls had ever done together. Holidays, stories they had written together, and funny drawings.
Lia’s eyes stung as her eyes took in the notebook’s pages for the last time, all her memories. On one page Sarah’s smile would beam out, her braces sparkling in the sun like tiny diamonds. Tickets from movies they had seen together, that had left them the last two people in the cinema, dabbing their eyes with tissues. Dockets from buying bags of lollies for sleepovers that they had stayed up all night at, telling each other their secrets and playing truth or dare. Turning the page, Lia held her breath as a zoo tiger leapt out of the photo at her, so real she could almost feel its warm breath on her skin.
Slamming the book closed, Lia threw the tiny book into the toilet, and before she could change her mind, pushed the flush button on the top of the toilet. All her memories, gone in the crashing waves of the toilet bowl forever, swirling around in a sea of waste to the forgotten world of sewage. Forgotten.
The Secret
By Amber Woolf
The herd of horses stood soundlessly in the grassy meadow. Waiting and listening, as quiet and as the soundless night around them. Beside them, the sea glimmered silently, as if the water was also waiting. The tempting smell of fresh grass beckoned for the horses to eat, but the horses ignored its tempting smell in the night air. No breeze fanned the horses’ manes, or made the grass whisper.
The horses stood, awaiting the arrival of their friends. There was that still feeling in the air, the silence in the waves. The eerie twinkle of the stars. Yes, they would come tonight. Their secret.
Movement. The stallion raised his head higher, his ears turning like satellite dishes as he scanned the meadow for the source of the noise. The mares heard it too. Each head was raised higher; each ear pricked.
A wave hit the shore, spreading over the sand like margarine on bread. The stillness had been replaced with wave after wave of glimmering water, each louder and more promising than the last. The wind blew also, pushing the grass hard against the soil in gusts of cool, fresh air. Two high-pitched whinnies erupted over the meadow, piercing and amplified with the wind. The first being a squealing yet graceful call, restricted by the soft waves of seawater above the caller. The second call came from above the herd. More powerful, more definite than the first. The herd poured out of their compact huddle, rearing, bucking and squealing.
They had come.
Happily, the herd danced in the moonlight. Manes were tossed and tails bannered out behind them as they bounded over the grassy meadow. Then as if they were in a well-practiced dance performance, the horses stopped to listen once again. Every ear pricked, every eye glistening, the horses stood once again.
Out of the crashing waves rose several dark figures, springing from the waves like the water was flinging them from beneath it. They would dive, head first into the tide, then it would spit them out again, sending them in perfect arches through the air. Silhouetted against the glowing night sky, the sea horses looked like dolphins with horse heads, diving and splashing gracefully towards the shore, their silvery manes silver and silk-like.
Like eagles soaring overhead, several winged horses appeared above the herd, diving and maneuvering like hawks in action. Their large feathery wings cast shadows over the herds’ paddock, blocking out the starry sky above. They kept their hooves tucked in tight beneath them like the wheels on an airplane, like paper planes in a classroom, they flew effortlessly through the air, despite their size. Their wings made little noise, apart from a whistling, whispering noise made by their strong feathers as they flew with pure ease above the herd.
Whinnies flooded the meadow like calls for help from a burning hospital as the horses greeted one another. Stallions rear, mares squeal, and foals buck as their friends join in their midnight dance. The pound of hooves, the soar of wings, and the splash of slithery tails create a symphony of happiness. The ground horses rear as a winged horse flys above, playfully attempting to touch the horse above. Eyes wide and sparkling, the horses that don’t fear the water splash in next to their scaly relatives.
A single whinny disrupted the horses’ gathering. The winged stallion had called his friends, collecting his herd for the long fly home. Reluctantly, the winged horses became air born once again, lifting into the air as if gravity had ceased to exist. They nickered good-byes to their friends, and the meadow erupted again with the sound of conversation. A gentle flowing call arose from the water, as the sea horses’ stallion called his herd, who dived and sprang gracefully beneath the crashing waves.
The ground horses remained. The brave ones who had swam with the water horses climbed out of the cold water, shaking the salty water from their manes, jealous of their friends’ inborn talent to resist water. They watched their friends disappear beneath the waves and over the horizon, disappointed that their reunion had ended so soon.
The meadow was silent once again.
Until next time…
(just a bit of writing I wrote at the start of the year. Its part of a really long story, but I really liked this bit especially.)
The house was silent after Mr and mrs Addington went to bed.
Anathema quickly became enclosed in an effigy of peace, peace untouched by the sound. There was no sound. No sound other than the creeks made by the swaying bones of the house, ghostly noises that could be twisted by the imagination to become something made by something entirely different to what they were really made by. Creeks in the floorboards became footsteps in Anathema at night time. Branches against windows became long with nails on the blackboard like surface. The whistling of the wind became whispers of sad lonely spirits, awaiting an answer. And the darkness. The darkness became endless. Like all of Anathema had been shut in a shoe-box, and no one would ever lift the lid and reveal what was inside ever again. Like Anathema was just a black empty room... a room with no walls.
30/04/08:
…we close our eyes to see
We close our eyes to see.
Swept away into the darkest of fields, the bleakest of feelings, the most terrifying of secrets. Suddenly we are in light. We are not in the real world, we are beautiful. The left over thoughts of our daytime send us flying to other places. Feelings of sadness as we fall send us to sorrowful funerals, amongst the sweetest of elegies. Feelings of guilt as we fall see us honest once again. Feelings of uncertainty or worry push us deep down into the alleyways of imagination, places we would rather forget about as we rise. Places that terrify us and feelings that overwhelm and confuse us. Secrets reveal themselves and we wrap our hands softly around them, revolutionizing. Whispers and the shrillest of cries hold us, taunt us, tell us what we need to know. And suddenly, we know everything. The mist of clandestine has cleared to show us the unseen hills beyond. What brought us to this place? Why are we here? Who are these people? Those familiar faces are somehow not similar anymore. Familiarity has lost its similarity. Clarity has lost its emotion. We feel nothing; what we feel somehow feels unreal. Nothing is real. So who are these people? What is this place? Questions ripple the calmest of seas … and suddenly we know everything. We question, we observe, we explore, and suddenly we know everything. Somehow, we know everything.
We awake. We arise. We open our eyes.
Sweet light has filled the room.
And suddenly, we know nothing.
Dear Miss Gillaly: This story is exactly as I have written it. I haven't changed this last story at all because I really liked all of it and it is really special and I didn’t want to change any of it because I was afraid of ruining it. If you have any ideas for any of it then I would be really interested. Thank you!!
18/04/08:
A SECRET WORLD
Standing alone in a field of imagination, the observer stood complete and able, and yet invisible. Standing where no one else had ever been, the world that the observer had created was fully their own. Detail like no other surrounded the observer, soft like silk. The observer stood, eyes tightly closed to see the events before them, creating them, always one step ahead. In one shaky hand, the observer, held a thin, cold key in their fingertips, the key to a secret world. A terrifying, chilling world.
Everything was coming to an end. The observer, the onlooker of the happenings could only watch as the events before them took place, one after another, in perfect sequence. The onlooker felt tense, and their hands were tingling like they do after you pat a cat the wrong way, against the flow of luxurious fur. Before their eyes, the story was unraveling. Things were happening, happening fast and quick, which only added to the climax. The ultimate climax; the final conflict. The happenings that would top off everything. Prodding and turning the events in their mind, the onlooker twisted the words until they were as smooth as the flattest sea. To suit their liking, the observer was molding the events like clay. Before them, the shards of excitement came together in mind – forming perfection.
The excitement was coming to an end. Slowly, the thrills descended. The observer began to relax a little. Everything was becoming easier now – more in control. They could control the happenings, the power flowing from their fingertips like magical bursts of power … some kind of connection from the fingers to the mind. Imagination to the world that lay heavily around them.
Slowly, a resolution found its way into the observers’ mind. Unplanned, and yet anticipated. It was now before them, loosening the heat of the climax, finishing what had been started. Knots in the rope were untying themselves, the observer could only sit and watch as the Ferris wheel of excitement slowly spun to a stop. Intensity was fading. A happy, meaningful end. A sad end, but a well planned one. Like an old friend was slowly dying, and the observer had been given the job of planning the funeral. The observer couldn’t quite believe that it was all coming to an end. All the time spent on this journey, and it was all coming to a shallow close. The observer could end it all any time they wanted, but something dragged them on – pulled them deeper into the story before them. All of what they had seen, heard, smelt, felt and lived was coming to an end … and they could only watch.
The flame went out as the last word was written.
A meaningless scrawl on the page.
The writer closed the notebook shut. The secret world was gone. In one shaky hand, the writers pen, the key to the secret world, burned the writers fingertips.
The writer stood and stretched. The bed was made next to them; and the time was past twelve. They couldn’t quite believe their story had taken so long to write. Months of sitting in bed every night writing, like some kind of anti-social nocturnal notebook freak. But it was all worth it. And as the writer lay down on the velvet soft bed and turned off the light, the ceiling danced with the shadows of the words fresh from the writers mind, the darkness lit with the excitement of writing.
But there was always tomorrow.
And suddenly the flame lit inside of the writers mind again, because already the writers mind was dancing with ideas for their next story … another 76,000 words danced in the writers mind, and they would until they could be released onto paper … but that would have to wait until the morning…
The writers’ eyes closed.
Beneath a lucid dream, the writer lived out their stories. They were their characters. Their characters were them. The places were their own, and the writer slept in comfort knowing that there was always a secret world awaiting them, a world that no one else knew of.
DON’T LEAVE ME HERE
I am falling.
Falling beneath hidden thoughts, forgotten dreams. Falling slowly like an autumn leaf down to the secret world below. Softly and gently through a nonexistent breeze. All is still. Around me, thick darkness, night-like black lies unmoving. I am going to that place beyond the lonely … I know that no one will follow me.
I land on a carpet of grass. Cold grass that feels somehow warm, caring. A soft wind blows from the west, causing it to rustle slightly. The west. The direction of the dead. The direction of the missing. The direction of the loved ones that love no more.
The wind blows longingly over the forgotten landscape. It blows whatever remains, but I stay standing. I realize that I am alone, but as soon as I think that, I know that it isn't true anymore. The wind blows lovingly over the forgotten landscape, and I know that I am not alone.
I hear voices. Their voices. They speak of love and promises and good times, but their voices show no excitement. Excitement is dead. I hear their fading voices, and then I see faces. Face after face of broken hearts, forgotten promises. Fire-lit faces of icy pallor; they show nothing. Just a greetful smile as they see me. People I once knew and people that once knew me. They flash before my eyes, and I feel their happiness. Behind their shadowed faces is the rapture that I have long forgotten. And suddenly I know that they are happy where they are. Suddenly I realize that happiness has risen form their only fear … sorrow.
Suddenly I realize that I want to be there with them.
As soon as I have thought that crushing thought, the faces disappear. There are no whispers, no eyes in the darkness. The ones I once knew have gone.
I don’t want to go.
But I must. The hands that dropped me here now are forcing me from the ground again. I am gliding, rising from the darkness.
But I don’t want to go.
Suddenly I am in light again. Around me, I see faces … people. But familiarity has gone. I hardly know these people. Do they know me? I fight to recognize them, and they laugh at me. Their laughter kills me. Their light, their angry, uncaring faces, their laughter drowns me. I can’t escape it.
Don’t leave me here, I whisper.
All happiness drains away. I am not satisfied with this life of lies anymore.
I need to get out. Need to see those that have left me again. To be with them, to talk to them.
But I know that they are gone. They are gone and there was nothing I could do to stop them closing the door between us. The door locked itself, blocking the lonely from the rest of the world. Blocking the lonely from the west. The direction of the dead, the missing, and the lost loved ones.
I live in sickening brightness and long for thew day when I can open that door. The door that will let me be with the lost ones, the forgotten ones.
We have been left behind.
Left behind in this world that never breathes. The world of the angry, the ugly, and the forgotten. We’ve been forgotten. One day, when our sorrow wins its war, we will leave. We will blow softly to that hidden place beyond the lonely. We will laugh again. We will see all those that we have lost, and somehow, it will seem that we never, ever said our good-byes.
Until then, we live in a world that never breathes. Until then, we can only dream of those that have left us.
Until then, we live in a world that never breathes.
We have been left behind.
08/05/08
It wont be alright
I was yours for the taking.
I had been running on the lonely road. Running somewhere. The lonely road they called it, but how can roads be called lonely if they are homes to one of our bleakest creations? A creation like no other. The creation that never sleeps. It haunts our roads, filling their silence with the screech of tyres and screaming brakes. It fills our landscapes with light-so unnatural. The creation that we allow to roam the highways. The creation that killed me.
You in the drivers seat, you didn’t care. You never told. I was left to rot away into the darkness, into the shame. ”It wont be alright” were your last words to me.
…then you killed me.
My body got taken away, but I'm still here. Still the same. Still waiting. Sometimes I still see the same bright lights, and once, the exact same animal that killed me. I jumped in front of you, trying to stop you, to make you understand … but you kept driving. Right through me. I knew I had been there, but when you’re alone on a lonely road and you’re dead, you forget that people cant touch you.
Maybe, before you passed through, you saw my ghostly figure in the middle of the road. Perhaps you saw my seething eyes. I had no reflection, but I knew that my eyes shone revenge.
Walking soundlessly, I tread this icy road and I know that I have been forgotten. You left me here. I tread this icy toad and I know that no one will ever understand.
Suddnely I see those same white-fire eyes, shining softly through the black. I recognize those night-penetrating eyes … you never EVER forget the eyes that killed you. Ever.
And now I'm running again. I see you on the side of the road before me, your creation pulled over. You are dimly lit, and I see you checking the tires. You didn’t hear me approach you. No one ever heard me.
I am standing behind you as you lean down to check the tires once again. I am the cool breeze on your neck, the shudder down your spine. I remember you. Do you remember me?
My icy hands close over your eyes and you stiffen. My touch sends icy waves throughout your body. I notice your quickening of breaths and, creating vanilla clouds in the darkness, and I feel your fear. I feel your fear, and I know for certain that you are mine for the taking. I lean closer.
“It won’t be alright.” I whisper.
You are mine for the taking.
I take you and isolate you from the rest of the world. You are now like me. Finally you can feel my pain.
Your creation stays humming on the side of the road, headlights staring for hours before it finally runs flat. It is as dead as you and me.
You are mine. Together we tread the highway – the partners of death. It was a fair exchange. You killed me and I killed you. What can I say?
You were mine for the taking.
Mine for the taking
I was yours for the taking.
I had been running on the lonely road – somewhere. The lonely road, they called it, but how can lonely roads be the home to one of our bleakest creations? A creation like no other. The creation that never sleeps. It haunts our roads, filling their silence with the screech of tires and screaming brakes. It fills our landscapes with light so unnatural. The creation that we allow to roam the highways. The creation that killed me.
Nobody came to find me. You in the drivers seat, you didn’t care. You never told. I was left to rot away into the darkness, into the shame. “It wont be alright.” Were your last words to me.
Then you killed me.
But I'm still here. Still the same. Sometimes I still see the same bright headlights, and once, the exact same animal that killed me. I jumped in front of you, trying to stop you, make you understand … but you kept driving. Right through me. I knew I had been there, but when you’re alone on a lonely road and you’re dead, you forget that people cant touch you.
Maybe, before you passed through, you saw my ghostly figure in the middle of the road. Perhaps you saw my seething eyes. I had no reflection; but I knew that my eyes shone revenge.
Walking soundlessly, I tread this icy road and know that no one will ever understand.
Suddenly see those same white-fire eyes, shining softly through the black. I recognize those night-penetrating eyes … you never ever forget the eyes of the one who killed you.
And now I'm running again. I see you on the side of the road before me, your creation purring silently on the side of the road. All is dimly lit, and I see you checking the tires. You don’t hear me as I approach you. No one ever heard me.
I am standing behind you as you lean down to check the tires once again. I am the cool breeze on the back of your neck, the shudder down your spine. I remember you. Do you remember me?
My icy hands close over your eyes and you stiffen. My touch sends ice-like waves throughout your body. I notice your quickening of breaths, creating vanilla clouds in the darkness. I feel your fear. Do you feel mine? I feel your fear and I know for sure that you are mine for the taking. I lean closer.
“It won’t be alright.” I whisper.
You are mine for the taking.
I take you and isolate you from the rest of the world. You are now like me; always here, and yet one world away. Finally you can feel my pain.
Your creation stays humming on the side of the road, headlights staring for hours before it runs flat. It is as dead as you and me.
You are mine. Together we tread the highway, the partners of death. It was a fair exchange. You killed me and I killed you. What can I say? You were mine for the taking.