Dark Island

It’s a dark day today


This narrow circle of life in an ocean of sharks is getting smaller by the day. The dark water lapping inexorably at the delicate shore-line is eating inwards towards wrinkled feet where the general isolation is beginning to feel cold and more desperate, almost by the hour.

For years this had been your happy place to live, despite being only a sad rocky outcrop, there were small pockets of lush enveloping scented greenery and cool satisfying pools of delight to submerge in and rise refreshed and sated; but now even these were drying up and wilting in the emotional drought.

Pacing around the shoreline, avoiding its grey foaming lips, the tip of a once tall proud outcrop flicked into view but remained swathed in the feathery spume of the waves that washed it clean of all humanity and hope. You can’t bear to look it for long fearing that the memories of more intimate times will overwhelm you. It’s lone inhabitant that had often allowed the heat of human entanglement was long washed to their uncertain death in the watery hunger. The few other such places were now only clouded memories but at least they couldn’t taunt you with lingering promises but the certainty of a dry shrivelled humiliation.

Even the occasional glimpse of a white-topped rescue only prove to be tricks of the mind, often only theirs as yours has given up that hope long ago; a knightly vision on rearing grey dappled stallion is a thing of beauty but holds no benevolence in this jaded pit.

With less things to distract a crumbling ego and forgotten care, you stumble back to the shelter that now only hangs together with wisps of dreams. Darkness is quickly drawing you in, the light of a life clouded in mouldering billowing fungi and the threats of rumbled horror.

The hiss of the foam creeping ever closer makes you draw up the rough sackcloth and you croak back a cough from the dust of ashes now long cold, night could take you now and no-one would know, would they even care?

Beside you an email pinged into its inbox but just from the subject line you know it wasn’t from him; that boat has sailed and deep down you know there would be no others cruising onto your horizon anytime soon.

Dark Island

300

99 words on the 300, a film not for the feint hearted but wonderful in its artistic excess.


The three hundred rage, raining down brutality that is their lives, seen in a sepia monochrome madness, magnificent musculatures swoop and shake as bodies bleed in boundless decapitation. Twisted madness falls to blades and arrows where rivers of gore flow down tall cliffs to the seas.

The 300 Spartans fall few but return to their homes and women in rampant reunions, children training in brutality that sees them step to their fathers pace as maleficence sweeps the known world and blood lust feeds the souls of the lost.

Who would guess the foundations of our society feeds on such.

The three hundred rage

Bazooka

Another writing exercise from picking a random word from a hat and getting creative with it, enjoy.


Long, sleek, tubular dealer of destruction
held easily up on your shoulder, a perfectly engineered killing construction

Slide in the conical charge
you’re calm, slowly breathing, the scope makes the far off target loom large

See your chance tense the finger
wrapped into the trigger, but you see something now that makes you linger

It’s a face, someone who’s real
you can do this you say but the sightless eyes looking back somehow alters the deal

They can’t see you so does it matter
their blind gaze answers no, but then you’ve lost the will to turn then into just a blooded splatter

You pull back, release tense grips
and despite years of training, the slightest quiver ripples across your fast drying lips

The cold weapon slips down to the ground
you know this is where your career hit the skids and you’ll soon be homeward bound

Court Marshall taken and rank dishonourably removed
with conscience intact and no blood on your hands the bazooka still blackened the faces only,
no bodys left to entomb