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One thing leads to another, Then there's nothing left to say, Will I ever recover, To see the light of day. What's the use of praying, To he who weilds the sword.
They won't hurt, said the horrible woman. One of them ate Frank, while the other watched.
Harrison I roll things over in my mind, where should I strike first. I decide on the face. I pull my fist back. Readying myself. I feel a firm grip on the back of my arm.
At night, I slept. All was well, until I saw this temptress. I realised I had known her from a previous life. A life where I dare not return.
There's blood at the window. Blood on the bed. Blood in the ashtray. Blood from my head. In pools by the door. In lakes in the bath. Painting the walls. There's red by the draft.
A well groomed man sporting a tailor -made suit; sits perched like a toucan in his refined leather chair; his hands sensuously sliver up and down its subtle, smooth and soft silky skin upholstery.
So here I am. Sitting here, in an uncomfortable chair in a silent room. Waiting to see my brother for the last time. I wonder what colour my eyes are now.
Only in the black of night do I see. Behind closed lids, the script of a life once known plays out. Familiar faces are frozen in time. One face prevails in the blackness. The last I saw.
So this is how it starts. I'm falling; fast. I have no control of the direction or where I'm going, but that doesn't matter because I know I'll end up in the same place.
At first it was just a flicker. Bad feeling. Something was not right. She tried to ignore it, and focus on the text she was typing. It didn't work. It gradually got stronger.
This is written in memory of my best friend, David. 1987 - 2009.
I screamed. I fell to my knees in agony, a white burning pain distorted and deteriorated my vision. I fell to the floor, ripping the broach from my body.
The banging, its started again. I though I had gotten rid of it when I took ... Never mind. I just can't seem to shake it. A constant banging in my head. Bang, bang, bang, BANG. Why won't it go away.
The cars wheels span furiously and whirled the plumes of smoke in my direction. Dry blood coated the steering wheel and fresh blood streamed down my shaking leg towards me.
Prologue: She's crying. She's always crying. At least you think so, because that's what it sounds like anyway.
Life is hard, we all know this, but for one person, life was harder than anything you or I could ever imagine. Peter had not led a blameless life.
(1.
I woke up and sluggishly slid from bed; did my morning routine of shower, makeup and hair. Popped the television on and made my breakfast. As I ate, I was distantly aware of the news.
Shadowland I hated this time. Everything was dead and empty. The ground was dry and cracked; an attempt to starve us into submission.
There is a dead feeling like dry skin like dry smiles makes outlines in the snow. The water escapes the heat through the air, the gas is building tears, they fall the wrong way.
A long time ago I was sat on the floor in my garden. It was sunny, but not warm.
Daisies lined the grave. All I could do was stare. The wall was too thick, too hard, too firm.
You always smelled of coffee and orange peels, a home I pretended to remember for your sake. Our hands shook, your back trembling like crumbling marble when I kissed where the cracks split your skin.
Mother mother came home drunk tonight. She sent chills down their spines as fast as flight. Young Tony came to his sister's bed. Shaken he ducked his head. Mother mother came up the stairs.