Creative Writing Course 2013: Descriptive exercise (gone a tad rogue!)

What could bring a man to this decision, this place, this moment, two storeys of memories standing before him as he stared hopelessly at the dilapidated facade, the collection of bricks and mortar looking as unwanted as the memories held within. That photographic window into the past was the cause of this misdeed, as heavy for him as the crumbling archaic stone work that overshadowed the front door, yet it was as slight as the creased photo tight in his grip.

The photo felt like something old and the faces in it older still, two people very much in love is what he wanted to say but the truth was something less ‘emotional’ the meaning of that word ‘love’ always having some comparison to a poison or a drug now a days. He remembered been in that house when it was filled with ‘love’ or whatever his sub-human existence recognised it as, as for her, he couldn’t hazard a guess as to what her own views were on the matter.

The picture had been taken on a webcam, the focus was a little off but the image was clear enough as two people joked around in front of a camera lens, without any idea of just how intently their demons would try to destroy any notion of happiness. He wasn’t a bad person, he was everything life expected him to be, followed the rules, he even managed to appear human on occasion but as the photo reminded him of happier times, the pale semi-shaven face and black bags under his eyes reminded him it amounted to nothing.

From his first step into that cursed building he could smell the acidic reek of emotions burn his senses, throughout the house there were many marks set into the discoloured plaster and the disseminating cracks that radiated from those stress fuelled impacts, a fitting tribute to how these events in his life had spread their ill after affects to every hopeful endeavour since. From having dug it out that fateful Thursday the image had haunted him, even more than her rejection that she had delivered with such poisonous prose.

She was perfect of course, I mean she had her demons which could reduce anybody else to a depressive mess, but that’s why he ‘loved’ her even though it had led to the crushing hell that with every romance since had become the norm. His heart had become like the house that stood empty, abandoned, bare faded walls showing the evidence of neglect and abuse as a spider silently scurried out of a cracked window, unaffected by the cold breeze that the broken glass and the ageing frame with its cracking paint let in. When even the insects abandoned the carcase, it was a sign…

As his grip loosened on the faded paper that reminded him of both the happiness she had given him, the despair her absence had left him in, he felt not the chill of the air but a more vicious chill of something a lot more familiar. When he was younger and full of hope he would have already moved on to some new and fantastic project, something to distract himself from the more depressing aspects of his life, but now it was only when he was sinking into that depressive haze that he could face such a situation, such a choice.

Messing around with his laptop, showing the only lady in his life to whom he could speak honestly (well, more or less anyway) he had without knowing it got the only photo of her that he possessed, a glimpse of a moment in time that now lay in the gathered dirt, on the floor that evidently hadn’t been cleaned for quite some time. The only evidence he had ever been human, left behind as time began to cover his freshly laid footsteps, even more infused with the sense of nothingness he had entered with.

What had drawn him into that place, what ghosts had beckoned him to times best left behind, was it her voice he had heard or just the wind rattling through the broken windows of an empty building. And with her face fresh in his mind at the source of his biggest mistake, that was to trust and open his heart without the scepticism of his advanced years to protect him, where better to bury his demons once and for all.

As he tied the rope around one of the few remaining banister poles, sat upon the creakingly old banister itself as if to give life the chance to do what it had been too much of a coward to do so far, the only words that came to mind were those on the back of the photo. Gravity like a merciful force did its work, the final satisfaction of knowing life would be deprived of one of its greatest jokes.

And the words on the back of the photo…


Written in the times before, cast into history’s vault, now a shadow of what was

My smile is like a dark light, in a thousand shadows

Many have seen the grim flash of false happiness

But only those who possess tainted eyes and darkened souls

Have seen my true smile, hidden by night

Wearing shades in a darkened room

The glass is solid and the contents still, a hand so steady that it would challenge the very meaning of calm as with measured breathe I take a sip of the liquid clear, the hollow wish that what lies within it would be an alternative liquid clear so to kill my mind for a night of tranquil thoughts.

A history full of unwanted relics, that with less noble intent linger to persist the idea that if I gave in to the sweet desire for eternal silence… Such seductive logic a regular temptation when faced with the world so cruel. To delve into despair with such willing frequency is not a thing the damned wish to endure; it is but merely a fractured reflection of the lust for chaos that underpins my self-destructive flare.

In the suns praising light I am to others a figure whole but for those that walk in the chasms of shadows, the places happy folk don’t even have to try to ignore, I am best represented in the darkness of pain drenched sorrow refined into a vintage to defy the purity of pure.

But who gives a damn about another melancholy soul in this world we drift through….

The darkened mirror, the shadow cast room, a man faces demons as into his own eyes he sees the storm, no glaring light to highlight the endless layers of flaws, wishing not to have to see those eyes set into the face he calls his own, such realisations too much to bear.

The jaded shades I wear through which my corrupted vision is forced to perceive all that surrounds, no concept of the positives of life as every action both maliciously cruel and wonderfully wholesome are given the same conceit as my paranoia can draw, to consider only the lesser motives to which we all are slaves and must endlessly serve. To experience the full wonders of my pessimistic view I would only offer the exercise of wearing sunglasses in a darkened room.

Angelic voices shout warnings from one side as from the other demons drag and claw, with my will to live standing upon the knife blade so sharp as to cut the untainted without so much as a care, the tainted already too wounded to notice they are so close to committing to a mortal fall. But what a nice shiny blade it is that for those who live on the borderline, who see it as so perfect a metaphor for the life they live, the life they endure.

But upon the edge, which way to fall?

The Restful Sleep, Peaceful Night, Which with my flying fingers I fight as i type

I see you life, watching, plotting

Your assassins have failed again, whether by design or the art of incompetence

As the moon lit night becomes my muse I ponder why when I need sleep my mind is wired to rearrange the stars, as a mere parlour trick of the power my mind commands

Within the fevered fog of a creative haze I stumble, each line I compose a fragment of the obscured vision I flail hopelessly to reveal

The looming threat of a headache front clouds the horizon, any certainty of health I may wish for beset by instability, born of both my nature and the curse of chasing time

Eyelids collapse with weakness as my long awaited sleep heralds its arrival, how long can I hold back the tide of tiredness, how long can I justify the futile exercise of resistance my flawed nature persists

The sheep I count take forms of words, over the fence and into the screen that loyally serves my need to type fever induced collections of letters than attempt to resemble coherent lines

I am finally awash with restful waves that crash upon the endless beach of my unconscious dreams, unless these waves are an illusion of the darkness that shifts into more nightmarish forms

Must type, must write, challenge with unhealthy cause the endless night

My resources spent as into realms beyond I submit, for in these hours I fight my lust for sleep, only to find that with the daylight sun I will crave the bliss of a restful night


Bleeding Heart 1


Deep down

In this dark place

A hole so deep

Mortal minds cannot reach

A place of wildest dreams

Held within a nightmares keep

Of shattered dreams

And fractured sleep

I find a raging storm

From which no light escapes

The core of a lifeless place

Devoid of all but hopeless black

The gateway to this retreat

In the centre of happiness source

The empty heart shaped hole

From which my joy bleeds

Within which I find my release

From all of life’s wretched beat