Creative writting course 2014: The Choice Pt1

‘Life wants to kill you, the world wants to burn you and everything else just ain’t caring’ the words endlessly circling his head, the incessant echo of a survivalist philosophy that did little to praise the joys of life. The joys of life… Happy family… Fulfilling job… Merry home… like any of that was reflected in the deep frown glued to Yovac’s world weary features, not that anyone cared to notice the Damocles swords hanging over his head with ever increasing imminence.

 Most ‘useful people’; a term Yovac knew meant ‘happy arseholes that have no inclination of impending hell’ would just say “Ask for help, you need to trust more, believe in life, live in the moment” and all that bullshit spewed out by self help books. The problem was that Yovac had trusted and asked for help; believed life would help him, his reward; a case of clinical insanity and a predisposition for suicidal thoughts, something they neglected to put in the self-help books.

 The energy pistol resting next to a bottle of neat vodka challenged him with morbid intent; but Yovac was too depressed to even drink the ready poured glass of clear liquid, harbouring its 40% proof distraction. An internal struggle tore throughout his disturbed mind, how many times had Yovac fought the same futile battle with his ever deteriorating fractured nature, stared down the barrel of his own desolation. No matter how Yovac got to the point or what event triggered it he was always faced with the same two choices, consisting of a neat little hole in the head and blissful nothingness, the other choice, living, even harder to comprehend in his threateningly negative state of mind.

 Within the confines of his mental prison Yovac found it increasingly hard to give a damn about anything, even his own bloody survival, that fun filled thought provoking a grim smile, score one for the ‘hole in the head’ option, the energy pistol whispering sweet nothings like ‘It’ll be a lot less painful in the long term’ and ‘Just squeeze the trigger and its over’, the option to live failing to even register. For the first time in a small ice age the statue labelled ‘man staring at drink’ moved, as Yovac started counting his remaining friends, failing to progress beyond a single hand and even more damning, he didn’t even manage to raise every grubby digit, an exercise that was meant to reinforce his reason for living backfiring monumentally.

 He suddenly felt the need to rapidly throw the contents of the glass down his throat; the less he tasted the vile poison the better, a grim flash of corrupted humour prompting a smile as he revelled in the potential irony of doing the mortal deed in the middle of the happiest place he could find, some kind of sick revenge on the ‘happy people’, very fitting given his increasingly warped sense of humour!

 The day he met her was where it went downhill, and having taken a machete to the overgrown poison barbs of his emotional defences she asked him out, in hindsight it might have been easier to say no; rather than deal with the unseen crap storm such good intentions were destined to trigger, paving the road to hell!  At the time things weren’t that bad and he was fairing quite well, living on the private colony ‘Omega First’ wasn’t the worse thing, not too bad a planet compared to the lifeless rocks he had found himself inhabiting in the past.

 Having been born on a first generation spaceship, grown up in an environment that taught skill and worth over fluffy values like ‘social graces’ and ‘polite niceties’ Yovac had the unfortunate fate of been branded a ‘spacer’, half the people he met hid their wallets; the other half exploited his ‘talents’. He could fly ships better than any planet born pilot and shot straighter than most sharpshooters without trying; his home ship ‘The Viking’ even gave the inspiration for his Nordic name, although it had to be said Yovac’s pasty skinned slim figure betrayed the image his name evoked.

For a brief moment Yovac revelled in the perfection of her sure smile that had brought him ease, life’s assassins cast aside with the sound of her enticing tone, but inevitably he was dejectedly cast out of happiness by memories of the night she crushed him. The night in question, when she left him, was the first in a line of damning events, as in a darkly reflective mood he chose to remember only words and shapes, the fine point detail of that critical night would be too much for his fragile mind; the tool of his potential demise was tempting enough without Yovac offering it extra encouragement.

Part 2


The Bob Larkin experiment, started Sept 2009

Objective: A name and profile under which to post dark poetry and meet like minded people


Activity to date:

– Two blogs

– One relationship

– A Facebook page

– A fresh start socially at a pub

– Challenging my social anxiety

– Making a bunch of friends

– Giving my depression an outlet

– Featured on a poetry website

– Published in a poetry compilation

– Two writing courses

– Four Attempts to start a romantic relationship

– This post!

– Multiple art works

– A whole bunch of poems

– Three short stories


In short, the evolution of an idea in action

If you can explain it, you’re better than me!!!!

He was a good guy or so he thought, wasn’t perfect, rich or famous but in his little corner of the world he was king. As he sat back in what resembled a chair, the word ‘resembled’ referring to the faded pattern with its occasional patches of tape and the less mentioned about the four unstable legs holding it up…. To be honest it was like him, nobody could ever figure how the hell it was still in one piece!!


The unflattering glare of the screen illuminated the frown lines on his troubled face, they called it a dating website but he figured it to be a modern age torture device, hundreds of lost souls that had been cast aside by happiness, the ‘last single friend’ or ‘devoured by their career’ and finally ‘giving up on love but giving it one last try’ crowd. In the old days you would be invited to a party and introduced as ‘here’s my friend, he’s single by the way’ and a few parties later you would be hosting a party with your loving partner and saying ‘here’s my friend…’


Now approaching a women was like navigating a social minefield, where you needed an advanced degree in psychology just to tell if they were single, and then you had to call a tactical meeting so your opening line wouldn’t fall as flat as ‘Get your coat.. (Insert slap here)’. Nursing the short fat glass in his hand, wishing it was filled with something stronger than water, hell if it was he could explain away how badly written his opening messages were, an illiterate toad could write better, in fact the illiterate toad was probably one of the success stories the website shoved down his throat to sell itself!


The hollow tapping of the keys, collections of wasted words sent into the void to somehow make him think he had a hope of finding that ‘ole devil called love’ no other song title quite got it like that. “Stop it” he mentally slapped himself “quit that negative crap” this bloody profile wasn’t going to write itself and he was already watching the clock tick past midnight, the god forsaken hours he craved beckoning him with random films, late night creativity sessions to cash in on that moonlit high.


Right; Hi I like blaa blaa blaa, god could you add more cheese to that excuse of a profile text, let’s just add something about wearing pink and how much I like cuddling animals to put the polish on this turd. The grin on his face was as a razor gleaming, letting the delete key cut into the ‘recommended’ format, what was the point of being a wordsmith, poet and attempted writer if you couldn’t have some fun introducing yourself to the world.


And what the hell, it ain’t pretty and it don’t work but if you’re damned, you may as well be damned in style!

A forbidden post, An emotional glitch, Forced to repeat

‘In the darkest shades of depression, what really matters shines the most’

I’d love to say those words brought the hope needed to break the hold of such negativity, but the truth as always is far more brutal. When you’re in the pit, life’s assassins have their blades drawn and the only thing you have to fight with is the purest of hate and resentment, forged into the unholiest of weapons, you could be at Disneyland with a winning lottery check and it would mean jack.

Happiness in others becomes poison, taunting jibes to further drive you into the arms of that emotional venom that so easily replaces your blood and turns you into something wretched, as memories of every failed attempt to restore your own happiness fuels your resentment.

Soon there’s nothing, even reaching out and asking for help becomes an embarrassment, your own phycology is turned against you in some twisted fashion as the thought of admitting weakness goes against the corrupted logic driving you to hit that button….

That button, the big red button…. You don’t know what will happen but you know what it’s for, that sweet taste of revenge against life fills your senses and replaces reason and hope. Revenge against love, happiness, anything that’s put you in front the big shiny red button.

Depression my old friend, you’ve walked with me always and when forces conspire to end me you shout “This is my kill, my target, find your own” as I am again saved. But I never forget your own fatal agenda my old friend, and though it’s the ultimate self destruct you seek, you never lie about your purpose or hide your intent, as so much of this world does.

Then the moment strikes, choices are made and her face, smell, that perfect diner on a Sunday eve, somehow it even shadows the pain of not been able to say the three words I so want to confess. Does she know how much power she wields, that in her cause alone I would go to hell and back.

And in that split second, like a tense chess game, with the final play once more I avoid my fate, the board resets.

Till the next time old friend…… And even though I hate where the path of depression leads, I always get a thrill from the descent.