Message.

Here it is...

"hey..im guessin ur dad is [REDACTED]...sory 2 tell u but hes a total man whore he told me he was 38 dis was 2 yrs ago :/ i was like 17! bit sic dnt ya think i tried 2 politly say i dnt fancy u n he got all upset ffs! started threatnin me etc...u mite even no dis already tho jsut wonderd th hes bit of a freak! fuckin girls da same age as his son. eww"

I talked to him, and he doesn't know her. This fool simply made an account, messaged both of us, then deleted said account.
VERDICT: Troll. 

Mogwai - Special Moves

Mogwai's Latest Album. I thought I'd share.

Mogwai - Special Moves by Girlie Action

Lacking

So, I've noticed this blog has been lacking posts lately. That's due to my being busy. I'm currently 5,000 words into my novella. A select few of you will get it when I'm done. In the meantime, I'll try keep this stuff alive. I'll try to post things other than poetry; I've noticed that that's all that's been posted recently.

EDIT: The post below, Train Trips and Lyrics, got an Excellence in NCEA Level 1 Creative Writing.

Train Trips and Lyrics

I awaken, but keep my eyes closed for a moment, savouring the remnants of dreams. I find myself wishing it was reality, wishing she was here.


Sighing, I open my eyes to find I'm not where I thought I was. The familiar sight of my ceiling has been replaced with a glass roof. I can see the stars. It's still dark; the light surrounding me is artificial.

Rising, I swing my legs off the bench where I've apparently been sleeping. The area around me is slowly being recognised by my tired brain. It's the train station. And it's empty.

I sigh again, with my head between my legs. All of a sudden, I hear a hiss. Looking up, I see a train. I must not have heard it arrive. Strangely, no one gets off, not even the usual wardens. I sit there, in the empty train station, staring at the empty train. I get the feeling it's beckoning me, calling out to me. On a whim, I respond by standing, walking the few paces between myself and the open doors, and entering. The doors hiss shut behind me.

The train is just as empty as the station. There's no one there; the seats are all empty. I sit. No warden comes to collect my fare.

Looking out the window, I can see it's dark. I don't notice anything else. I can't see anything else, just the dark, empty night outside of this empty train.

Glancing around the carriage once more, my eyes land on something I didn't see earlier. It's an acoustic guitar, not unlike my own, resting against one of the seats. Curious, I give into temptation and wander over to it. Picking it up, I give it a strum. The tone is full, clear, louder than it should be.

Not really knowing why, I start to play. The carriage fills with sound, with music, but it lacks meaning, it lacks a melody. So I sing.

I don't know what I'm playing, or singing, but it's beautiful. My voice joins with the guitar, and it resounds through the carriage. It's the most amazing, indescribable sound I've ever heard. I've never played like this before.

The words flow from my mouth freely. They're new, unfamiliar, but they fit perfectly.



"All for you,

Everything I do,

Seems to be for you,

It's how I want to be,

For you."



As I sing, the darkness outside recedes, slowly being replaced by the light of a full summer's day. I see people walking down streets, holding hands. A family at a playground, smiles and laughter. A young boy running after his dog, laughing with joy.

I continue to play.



"And I count down the hours,

Till I return to you."



Couples hugging, friends laughing. Happiness everywhere.

The train stops.

The doors hiss open.

I continue to play as I walk out of the doors and into the sunlight.

She's there, a smile on her beautiful face.

I put the guitar down and run into her open arms.

And I sing the last line of my song.

"I love you, only you."

I'm happy once again.

Memories

Lazing about, together,



All alone,


Quiet, peaceful, happy.


Wish this could last forever.






My memories will never fade,


You will never be taken away,


You are the one for me,


And I'm thinking of you,


Tonight.






Spending time with you,


For you, for me,


I'm happy beyond belief,


I hope we will last forever.






My memories will never fade,


You will never be taken away,


You are the one for me,


And I'm thinking of you,


Tonight.






And these memories,


They are priceless.


And these times,


They are perfect.


And my love for you,


It's eternal.






You and I will never fade,


We will never be taken away,


You are perfect for me,


And you are on my mind,


Tonight and forever more.

A Collection To The One I Love

A collection of... things, I think I shall call them that I have, well, collected. Along with some of my own material.
This stuff makes me feel like a Hallmark writer. Never a good thing.

Though life may have just begun,



And there are surely many days ahead,


I'm happy with where I'm at,


And where I'm at is with you.






The time I spend with you is priceless.


Time is too slow for those who wait,


Too swift for those who fear,


Too long for those who grieve,


Too short for those who rejoice,


But for those who love,


Time is eternity.






Love is a friendship caught on fire,


Love is a friendship set to music,


And music is love in search of a word.


Love is too strong a word to say too early,


But it has too meaningful a meaning to say too late,


To fear love is to fear life.






So, let me say this.


I love you, not only for what you are,


But for what I am when I'm with you.


I love you, not only for what you have made of yourself,


But for what you are making of me.


I love you for the part of me that you bring out.


I love you, not only because you are perfect,


But because you are so perfect for me.






I say the word 'love',


And others may argue that I don't know what it means,


Or even that it has no meaning.


But, if I know what love is,


It's because of you.






And it's been said,


To love is to be vulnerable.


If that's the price,


Then I pay it willingly.


For to you, I am vulnerable.


I am open to you.


But, when we are together,


We truly are invincible.






So, I've said it before,


And I'll say it again,


I love you.

Flight

I await my vessel,
The one that will take me,
To you.

Waiting patiently,
Writing soothing words,
To calm the flight in my stomach.

Here we go.

And Again?

Again, I seem to be in a creative mood. Perhaps it's distance, time, or the Forum of the Banned.
But, more poetry it is.

The music resonates around the room,
The fire the only source of light.
I sit in the dark warmth,
And count down the days.

Time flows slowly, sluggishly,
Mocking my wait.

My mind skips forward,
To the day I see you again.
The impatience leaves,
Replaced by an excitement,
A happiness previously unknown to me.
Disbelief in my luck astounds me.
A grin spreads across my face.

The figurative pen flows across paper,
Literal fingers flying across the keyboard.
I put into words my emotion,
My feeling,
My thought.
This is how I pass the time without you;
By writing for you.
All for you,
And only for you.

There it is. Not as good as the last, perhaps.
There may be more later tonight.

Otira

Deep in the Southern Alps lies a town that is now nearly empty. The sections, once filled with houses, are now empty, only concrete blocks remaining.
Some of the few houses there have smoke leaving their chimneys; the only sign of life. The others are seemingly empty. All the houses are as derelict as the next, inhabited or not.
The local hotel is 'bustling'. Both its fires are lit.
People in this town are lucky to get 2 hours of sunlight a day. And yet, this town is situated directly on the coast to coast train line. The trains occasionally make brief stops, simply for assistance through the nearby tunnel; the third longest in New Zealand.
This town is a ghost town. The tunnel is the most well known part of it.
And here, it ends.
To be continued.

True story, bro.

Something Different

Right. This is all ad-lib, just cos I have the urge to write. Don't even know what I'm going to be doing yet. But, here goes. Poetry, I think.

The sun sets,
The cold mountains,
The fresh snow,
The pale sky.

I sit here,
In a silent house,
And my thoughts are with you.

I pick up my guitar,
And break the silence.
Melodies fill the air,
Calming, soothing.
My voice joins them,
And my mind drifts.

I think back,
Look over the past.
My thoughts zoom in on the past few weeks,
Lyrics propelling them along.

Originality flowing free,
Creativity abound.
You are my inspiration.

That night,
My fluke, my luck,
My amazement at the discovery,
Of someone akin,
Someone alike,
Someone beautiful.

Happiness.
That simple leap of faith,
Leading to so much joy.

End of Term, and the Return.

Getting off the bus, I stand around for a minute, deciding what to do. I don't want to go home just yet; it's only 6.30.

Crossing the road, I decide to wander the streets, and go where inspiration takes me. Heading off, I turn away from the main road and down a quiet, dark street. Lyrics course through my head: "I guess they would say we could set the world ablaze".

I settle into a steady pace, the pounding of my feet on the ground mesmerising. As my consciousness retreats, the steady rise and fall of the hills of West Auckland become a blur.

Eventually, I find myself surrounded by light. Rising from my ponderings, I look around, gather my wits, and realise where I am. It's the local mall. My phone tells me it's around 8pm. I don't use a watch anymore; all they are to me is a constant reminder of time wasted.

My stomach rumbles. I realise I haven't eaten since yesterday. Foolishly, I had left the house with no money. Regretting that decision, I make my way to the nearest supermarket. When I arrive, I walk straight past the entrance, choosing instead to sneak around the back. Supermarkets don't like people going through their rubbish. Which is bizarre; anything there has been thrown out, which is surely a viable argument against any potential lawsuit. It's almost as if they have something to hide.

I manage to get behind the supermarket without being noticed, and I arrive just as some teen working for peanuts dumps the latest load of wasted food. How very clichè, I think to myself.

Rushing to the dumpster, I throw open the lid and start rummaging. I give myself a minute before whoever's supposed to be watching the security cameras sees me.

Finishing up, I slam the lid shut and rush back to the relative safety of the shadows. With my roasted peanuts and bread, of course. Pleased, I chow down on a cheese bun, and continue my journey to nowhere.

I next arise from my deep thought when I run out of food. This time, it takes me longer to realise where I am. I'm at a golf course, apparently. Giving up on trying to find anything else, I sit under some treesm and light up a Crosaire herbal cigarrete. I've been off the harsh stuff for a while now. It's camomile and peppermint. Relaxing.

I sit there, under the trees and stars, in the cool wind, looking over the lights of the city for a good few hours. I like this spot; it's calming.

Then, I notice a figure approaching from across the course. I assume it's a worker here, probably coming to tell me to go away. Why would anyone be here this late? I wonder.

As the figure draws closer, it gradually becomes more familiar. How unusual. Eventually, I recognise him. A feeling of dread falls over me.

Apparently my break is over.

"Hello, my good sir. I'm back."

"I would say it's good to see you, but I don't want to lie, Sialon."

Sialon grins, as menacing and mysteriously paternal as ever.

A Lesson To Be Learned.

I go, for the lack of a better phrase, away from my MO for this post.

Someone I talk to occasionally on a forum lost his girlfriend in a drunk-driver accident recently. He made this post in the sound-off thread. There's a lesson for everyone to learn in it.

"Athina, I'm sorry. I can't believe the last memory you ever had of me was that one. I love you so much, and you mean so much to me, I'm disgusted with myself. I wish we could have held each other for one last time, that I could show you how much I love you, how much you meant to me. I wish I was there with you, that it could have happened to us together. I can't move on, I can't live my life without you. I think you know that though, and the same would be true if our roles were reversed. Remember that promise we made to each other when we were little, that we would always be there for each other? I feel like I broke that promise by what I did. If I hadn't have been a selfish ass, like I always am in comparison to you, we would have been together. After all you did for me, all the love you showed me, I left you alone in your last moment. You died alone because of that selfish fit I had at the house. We could have died together in each others arms, knowing how much we loved each other. Instead, your last moment alive was one of pain, and it's all my fault. Athina, I'm sorry. I'll always hate myself for this, and rightly so. I pray that you remembered how much I loved you instead of that last moment Athina, because I loved you more than anyone could comprehend. Athina, I promise you this. I will devote my life to helping people in the same way you helped me and everyone around you. I just pray that I can do you justice, and that you will be proud of me."

      - Thrashtastic15 (Jon)

There's nothing else I can really say.

And As You Walk Away

As I open my eyes, the world forms around me. The night sky above me, the damp grass under my back. Sitting up, I look around. I recognise where I am. It's the local school. The place is empty, as it usually is at this time of night.
I stand up, start to walk around. Why am I here? I think to myself. Suddenly, a voice calls out from behind me.
"Ashm," the voice is quiet, weak. Turning slowly, I face the person behind me. It's a female, that's for sure. But she has no distinguishable features, no way to recognise her. Her face is blank, expressionless. Her hair has no colour that I can determine, it changes smoothly, rapidly.
"Who are you?" I ask. The girl doesn't reply, she simply turns and walks away. The state that I am in, I am aware of everything. Figures flash around me, cold, a weeping face with bleeding mascara, lonely youths with acoustic guitars. The world is filled with noise, colour, and life. The girl continues to slowly walk away. My need to follow suddenly increases. I take a step forward, and the chaos disperses. Silence.
I am in a field of headstones, crumbling away. As she walks away, through the headstones, grains of stone reverse, float up, rebuilding the headstones, perfecting their ruin.
Another step forward. The headstones disappear. She is getting further and further away. Throwing caution to the wind, I run after her. She turns again, facing me. Now her face is beautiful, composed of all the pain, hurt, and love in my life. I stop in my tracks. Her long, brown hair flows in the sudden wind.
It all goes black. I hear her voice again, calling out through the dark.
"Hindsight. It's a beautiful thing, it shows successes and mistakes, fear and love."

Suicidal Tendencies - Failed Exemplar to... whatever you want to call it.

She took a deep breath, tried to relax. Slowly putting the pen down, finalising her message to the world, she glanced at the mirror on the cabinet. How she despised what she saw. Her long, stringy, pitch black hair fell over her face. Brushing it aside with her soft, olive-coloured hands, she took another breath.
As she thought back on her life, her mistakes, her few successes, the many people who hated her, none so much as she hated herself, a tear fell from her piercing dark eyes and landed on the paper.
Her thoughts rushed around inside her head, the confusion and turmoil endless. Pain, agony, all self inflicted. Depression, resentment, incurable. There was no one for her to live for.
She rested on the floor, letting the tears flow freely from her bloodshot eyes. Although she contemplated her next move, she knew she only had one choice. All other options were exhausted. The answer to her problems, her questions, the cure to her disease, it sat a few inches away from her hand. She pondered it for a second; she is worthless. Her life is a wreck, crashing around her soundlessly. There was no other way out.
All doubts cleared, she lifted her cure.
Whispering to herself, always to herself, she pulls the trigger.
"It's the only way out."

A drop of blood flies, soaring through the room, empty of life.
It lands on a piece of paper, and mingles with fresh tears, an eternal reminder of a life lost.
It lands under a single word, as if emphasising it.
Sialon.

Sluts, Threats, and Failures.

Don't you just love it when someone threatens you for no reason? When they tell you they're going to "Bash your head in on Saturday", you get such a rush. And then, they FAIL to follow it through. They make themselves look like shit. If that was possible. They prove EVERY SINGLE INSULT you've thrown at them to be completely true. It's funny.
And you say I'm a jerk. Hahahahaha.
Just to spite you some more, I shall do it again.
Your boyfriend is fucked up. He is disturbed. He is disgusting. He is a junkie.
So, what you gonna do, Jess? Huh? Insult me? Threaten me?
I am SO scared.
Connor, this is low, even for you. Even Tom agreed that she was as ugly as shit.
Wow.

Nature's Lament

Down the valley,
He walked.
Through paths undisturbed,
Awakening the sleeping.


Ignoring the signs,
Unaware of imminent danger,
He sat, and rested,
Upon sacred ground.


He settled,
He relaxed,
He rested,
And remained.


Unwelcome in this land,
He felled the trees around him.
Removing the quiet,
He would be alone no more.


Once the land was cleared,
The dead lay in a pile,
Their bodies desecrated,
Used for homes,
His kin began to arrive.


The boats crunching upon the virgin shore,
Pounding feet along a new path,
Heading towards a new life,
But the same old death.


They arrived,
And began to live,
Amongst the death,
Happy, and at peace,
The forests cried at their presence.


For years they resided,
Spreading further,
And longer,
Flattened land,
Devoid of life.


More arrived,
Drawn by tales of paradise,
By the scent of a new,
Untouched world.


As more and more life arrived,
More and more left the land,
Retreating,
Residing in places unknown.


Villages became cities,
Forests became deserts,
Vast plains filled,
Losing life,
Losing spirit.


But the land was preparing,
For the last chance,
The towns were unawares,
Unsafe from the turmoil
That would send them away,
Far from this land.


The land waited,
Gradually stripped bare,
Anger boiling,
Waiting to burst free.


After many years,
The land gave in.
Released its emotion,
Bursting out and free.


The anger flowed through the plains,
The sorrow over the deserts,
The emotion into the cities.


The land removed the cancer which was growing,
Returned life to its halls.
Sent energy along,
Down the valley,
Over the long forgotten path,
Into the unnatural clearing,
It pooled,
It rested,
Just as he had done.


When the land had finished,
When its anger and sorrow were spent,
The cities were left empty.
The plains renewed.
The deserts devoid of humanity.
And yet, the land was filled with hope.
A single seed, on the edge of the pool,
Waiting, resting,
In the clearing,
By the path,
Down the valley.
Waiting.

Tradition and Culture In Families and Society.

Tradition and culture is fine individually. As long as it harms no one other than yourself, go ahead.
However, when it is forced upon others, that is when it becomes a problem. This is most commonly seen in the form of indoctrination.
Indoctrination is the forcing of a religion, tradition, or culture on an innocent child. In today's society, this should be unacceptable. But, it happens regularly. A child is labelled as a 'Catholic child' or a 'Muslim child'. These phrases should cause outrage, as Dawkins rightfully points out. Why would you force something - something that will usually shape the way someone lives - on a child unable to think properly for itself? This is where indoctrination becomes harmful.
A child does not have the ability to decide for themselves whether a particular religion, tradition, or culture is sensible, right, or moral. What should be happening is this: parents should raise their children to think for themselves, to accept scientific evidence as right, and to discard views proved wrong by said evidence, even if these views happen to be justified by previous outdated scientific evidence.
Unfortunately, parents are bringing up their children to blindly believe in a faith which is unproven, and even has evidence disproving it. These children are left vulnerable for the rest of their lives. They are taught that blind faith is a virtue.
Some parents, surely the worst kind, even send their offspring to schools that teach false science. Schools that tell children that the earth is less that 10,000 years old. The amount of evidence against this is overwhelming. These schools are even funded by the British government!
Surely, children brought up to believe in something that has been disproven by significant amounts of reliable scientific evidence are not the way of the future, but rather, a step towards the past. These false teachings are only marginally better than teaching children that the world is flat.
A common argument for the indoctrination of children is as follows:
"This religion and it's holy book teaches us morals, and the difference between right and wrong."
This is usually said by Christians, the holy book being the Bible. In order to fully rebunk this argument, I shall direct you towards Richard Dawkins' masterpiece "The God Delusion". But, I shall also attempt my best here.
Those of you who have actually read the bible will know that there is as many, if not more, parts in it which would be seen as unacceptable today. Now, in relation to the moral Zeitgeist, which I shall not even try to delve into here, the 'morals' found in 'the good book' may have been acceptable at the time(s) of writing. Now, however, they are frightfully out of date.
Also, religion is not our source of morals. The 'moral lessons' found in the bible are mixed with many pitifully wrong and sick lessons. In order to choose right from wrong, as many theologists say they do, you need a basis to. . . base them on. A moral basis. You cannot try to say that religious people have an external source of morals that atheists simply do not have. Even if they did, the morals would originate from there, not the bible.
Without religion, we surely would still have our morals. Some religious apologists try to say that the existence of a god is our reasoning behind good and bad. So, according to these people, without a god, the world would be in chaos. How deluded these people are. If a god did exist, surely he would not accept people who are good simply because they are being watched. The most convincing argument against these people are atheists. Their very existence argues against that theory. Atheists do not believe in a god, and yet, the majority are still good people. They still have a very good sense of right and wrong.
Dawkins makes these points and many more. For fuller, better reasoning, read his books, The God Delusion in particular. Also, google him. Find his website. Tis very good.
So, I've gone from culture and tradition in family and society to an argument against religion. I couldn't help it. But, religion is probably the biggest source of culture and tradition in the world. And, as I have tried to point out, if only briefly, as there are many more arguments, religion is not necessary, and certainly not a good thing. Especially when indoctrinated at a young age.
So, it is my strong view that you are entitled to have your own culture, tradition, and religion. As long as your actions due to them do not harm others, and especially, I cannot emphasise this enough, as long as you DO NOT  force these views on others, ESPECIALLY young children, even if they are your own. Let them think for themselves. Don't subject them to your views.
They are human too.
They have a right to make their own decisions.

An Open Letter to Witi Ihimaera.

Dear Mr Ihimaera,

First off, I did not like the Whale Rider. While I respect your writing, and can see why many people enjoy it, your overuse of metaphors, similes, and other various descriptive language features turn what seemed like a good story idea into a piece of overly poetic writing which I could not enjoy.

Right. Now I've got that out of the way, I can get to it. The Whale Rider addresses the loss of cultural identity in a few ways. I'm sure you know this. I have to ask, is loss of cultural identity really that bad? Is cultural identity more important than personal identity?

Sure, cultural identity doesn't have to be lost for your own personal identity. But a lot of the time, it is. In my opinion, this is due to the fact that culture is overly unnecessary. It is good to know about your heritage, and how things were, but that's all it is. How things were. Some of these cultural ideas may be relevant in the present, but in this age of growing atheism, many cultural ideas are frowned upon. Older cultures, such as your own, no doubt, are based mainly on religion. As Richard Dawkins points out flawlessly, religion is no source for morals or any other use today. I have no way of knowing for sure whether women in Maori culture are treated as they were in your story, but if they are, it is only another point in my case. Another reason for the loss of cultural identity being a good thing.

In today's day and age, culture is not valued very highly. It can be used endlessly, and hence, it has lost value. Sure, it defines who you are. But, you don't need to have culture to identify yourself.

There are various other ways to do this. In the choices you make, the things you do, the acquaintances you make.

But, everyone is entitled to their own opinion. Everyone is welcome to share their opinions. If you choose to do so in a story, be my guest. But, when the story is studied in schools, I feel I must share my opinion.

So, while your story can be interpreted as good, it is not for me. This is also true for your view on cultural identity.

Sincerely

~Ashm

Of Plans and Playthings

Ahh, I do love it when a plan comes together.
As I may have mentioned, I gave Ashm a break. So, I took the time to finish a few things off.
The main one, beginning the downfall of a major country. Americans are so easy to manipulate. When the FBI find him, he will have no memory of the event. Those fools will probably kill him anyway. This alone, will keep me satisfied.
Additionally, I have been working closer to this one. In order to make sure he stays alive. To prolong his suffering. I have sent one to join me. Whilst leaving meaningless clues behind, in order to create beautiful confusion. I wish you luck in finding a link between a crashed car and empty shoes.
The other, simply a disappearance. A creation of loss, despair, whilst leaving some false hope to add texture. And, to keep their hunt going, a brief, but useless, cellphone signal.
Enjoy that, puppets.
Now, my favoured plaything, this visit shall be brief.
I shall return, very soon.
~Sialon

My Apologies.

I am sorry for the previous post. It was a freak of nature that should never have left the comfort of my mind.
I shall leave it, as a lesson to be learned.
~Ashm.

Absence.

I want to explain what seems like an absence in my mind.
I have things I want to post, but they are (extremely) personal. Shit that I can't share. Which annoys me, cos it's good writing, if I do say so myself.
My writing has been making me depressed. Depressive writing. Sad writing. Awww.
I need to take a break. Ignore everything. Relax. Forget.
I don't see that happening.
See? Now even this has turned into something deeper than it was meant to be. FFS.
To lighten the mood, imma post something I wrote in maths. A story explaining the retarded-ness of the sine wave.

Occasionally, people's faces are silly. When this happens, the faces can say two things.
Use logic to decide between the fake and gay, or truth.
When your logic is hungry, choose the bigger lie.
To do this, take the smaller lie away from 180 degrees.
This leaves you with a very big lie (angle).
Hungry, anyone?

In hindsight, that's just retarded.
To continue this mostrosity of a post (reminds me of something Allie Brosh wrote not so long ago, but less funny. I couldn't hope to compare with Hyperbole and a Half.):
I wrote a rage not so long ago. It never got published, because, as I said, too personal ("It's too real, Roy!"). I'd just like to say, even though you probably have no idea what the hell I'm going on about, that most of the issues in that rage have been resolved.
I found a confidant with seemingly godlike powers. Suprisingly.
Thank'ee, confidant.
I get the strange feeling I'm using 'confidant' wrongly here. Meh, even though a Google search is but a click away, this computer's too slow for that shit. So imma just point out that confidant here means someone to confide to. But that sounds too serious. Hence, confidant. Like, confidaaant. Stress on the a, not the i. Not confiiidant. Like, a confidee. Or confider. I realise those are two different things. It makes sense in my head.
This post is getting kinda long, and pointless.
I have no inspiration. Like writer's block, but worse, cos it's more like general-life-living-block.
Anyway, to stop this being a depressive thing, I hereby name this to be officially named super-anti-depressive-sad-no-more-happy-general-awesome-blog. Otherwise known as Hyperbole and a Half.
I like Hyperbole and a Half alot.

Of Stubbornness

You stubborn creatures. His reluctance to let go is causing him more harm than letting go would. But, oh, the delight. There's nothing like the human skill of causing yourself intense pain to feed off.
This one is providing too much fun for suicide. He has so much more pain to cause, to himself and the ones he cares about.
So much sorrow unleashed.
But I won't have to wait much longer.
Ashm's about to break.
~Sialon

In Memoriam

Alone.
Quiet in, no matter how it seems out.
Alone, and empty,
As I lay here,
Dying inside.

Confused.
Spinning round, with the straightest of faces.
Confused, and afraid,
While I sit and think,
Remembering.

In Memoriam,
For the part I have lost.
For the part that dies,
As you walk away,
In Memoriam,
For myself.

Sorrow.
Weeping inward, laughing out.
Sorrow, and pain.
As I watch,
The tears bleed out.

In Memoriam,
For who I was.
For who I lost,
As you turned away.
In Memoriam,
For the memory of you.

Fake smiles,
Fake laughter.
Alone, empty.
Confused, afraid.
Sorrow, pain.

Goodbye.

On Christians and Exorcism.

Christians never cease to disgust me. If I use the term 'Christians' wrongly here, either complain/correct me, and I'll most probably ignore you, or get over it. Either way, get over it.
Anyway, back to the disgusting Christians. How do they manage to torture and kill people of their own faith without punishment? By blaming it on another religion, of course. I am, naturally, referring to exorcisms.
Here is what a Christian 'exorcism' seems to be to me:
- A believer is afflicted with a mental illness, is high, or both.
- People around them, and the believer themselves, jump to the conclusion of being possessed by a 'demon'. Of course, blame a rival religion. What have we ever done to them, except expose them for who they are?
- A priest is called in to perform the exorcism.
- The priest then proceeds to torture the 'possessed' with their own beliefs. The believer, being so believing, or mental, same thing really, often responds with spiritual, mental, and physical pain and hurt. I often wonder how much of this is subconscious acting, simply to fulfil the beliefs so deeply ingrained in their brainwashed/gullible minds.
- If the 'exorcism' is 'successful', the ex-possessed is now 'free of evil/Satan/demons/reason', and owes their life to their church. Their belief is now bolstered.
- Unsuccessful exorcisms end in murder.

How fucked up is that? Or is it just me? I wonder sometimes.
Now, go, read Dawkins. Think for yourselves.
Laugh at the silly Christians. Mock them!
Mock them, I tell you!
~Ashm

The Beginning - The Emptiness Of I part 2

In every town, there is a place which is always totally abandoned. Usually, it's a derelict house. The one in my town is right beside the school. It's a popular place for waggers, but no one goes inside. I don't know if anything bad happened there, of if it's empty just because, but it is always empty.
There are times when my fascination with fear and paranoia go too far. This was one of them. I should have learnt by now not to mess with things like this, but I couldn't help myself. So, on one stereotypically moonlit night, I broke in. The back window, the one facing away from the road was my entry point. The floor was covered in plaster dust, but otherwise the house seemed fine. Just unused. Unused and empty.
I climbed in the window, and walked across the room to open the door. The door opened cleanly into what seemed to be the hallway. The walls were bare and the wooden floor was again covered in a fine layer of plaster dust. My footfalls sent up little clouds of white powder as I walked. I treaded down the hallway, around the corner, and up a flight of stairs. I was getting kind of self-conscious about the footprints I was leaving behind, but I'd always wanted to come here. I would look around, then leave. No harm done.
Reaching the top of the stairs, I looked about. There was a landing, with two doors on either side. Heading left, I tried to open the door. Strangely, it was locked. Perhaps not locked, but it wouldn't budge, and the doorknob wouldn't turn. Locked, or jammed. Either way, I gave up on trying to open it, and tried the door at the other end of the landing. This one opened fine, and led to a large room with a huge window looking out to the school. I stood by the window, looking out, when I heard a rustle back by the stairs. Curious, I went back to check what it was. I couldn't figure out what had made the noise, so I decided to check the other room again.
I froze. There, on the floor, in the dust, was another set of footprints. Not mine, another set. They came from the room, and went down the stairs. Following them, I descended. They turned a corner at the bottom, and disappeared. Just stopped. Paranoid, I headed back up the stairs to the locked room. Trying the doorknob again, this time it yielded.
Suprised, I pushed open the door, and cautiously walked into the room. An old, neglected mattress was lying on the floor. From what I could tell, it was stained with blood.
Freaked out, it was then that I decided to leave. Quickly. Spinning around, I took a step forward, and froze once more.
For there She was. The being that would forever torture me. She looked so menacing, and yet so innocent. Short, young, but with an expression on Her face that wasn't human. Blood was dripping from Her fingers, from the ends of Her terrible, long nails. She looked up.
Her eyes are the most haunting things I have ever seen. I will never be able to get that image out of my head. Her piercing glare, threatening, pure evil.
That was how I discovered Her. Or perhaps, She discovered me. Ever since, She has stayed with me. A horrifying, torturing presence.
The pain I have suffered at Her hands. . . immeasurable.
The sorrow She has caused. . . unbearable.
Her very presence is intolerable.
The sight of Her causes pain in the anticipation of itself.
She will never leave.

Of Volcanic Eruptions and Distractions

Oh, how I love causing confusion, panic, and fear. As I have surely mentioned before, human emotions are so enjoyable.
Another puppet of mine urgently 'needed' to fly across Europe. A matter of 'love'. These always provide the most fun. This poor fool had one chance to 'get the girl'. So, I decided to feast.
Nature responded to my calls. A number of volcanoes billowed smoke and ash around Europe. The silly bastard is well and truly stuck. He even tried to find another way to her. Determined.
Nevertheless, he failed. As a result, he is now sitting depressed in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, contemplating suicide.
How delightful.
~Sialon.

Google

I'm proud to see that Google has finally integrated this into their search. No more having to send people URL's. Yaaay.
Anyway, I'm gonna be away for a while. So, you probably won't hear from me. Check the other blog for more details.
If I get internet access, I'll prolly tweet something. God, I hate that word.
Look for 24Ashm on twitter.
Be back soon
~Ashm

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01011001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01101010 01110101 01110011 01110100 00100000 01101100 01101111 01110011 01110100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01100111 01100001 01101101 01100101 00101110 00001101 00001010 01000001 01110000 01110010 01101001 01101100 00100000 01000110 01101111 01101111 01101100 01110011 00100001

Plam.

He walked into the school, determined. He would complete the Plan. His Plan. The Plan he'd been planning for months.
The grounds were empty. Entirely empty. There was no one there. Just as he planned.
Getting changed, he kept an eye out for people. His Plan would not be ruined. It had to be done today.
Grabbing the glove out of his bag, and the spherical, soft, ball, from the inside pocket, he wandered out into the middle of the field.
Throwing the ball up into the air, he yelled "APRIL FOOLS!" and caught it.
His Plan had succeeded.

~ April Fools, eh?
Ashm.

Regret

I should have learned by now not to mess with powers above mine. Especially Sialon.
I regret to inform you that in my last post, "Of Strength", I impersonated Sialon in an attempt to make myself feel better and to explain myself to readers.
I'm sorry.
I shouldn't have done that.
Sialon is not impressed.
His protection has lessened.
I may have ruined my chances of joining him.
He is angry.
As soon as I was alone, his torture increased dramatically.
Tonight is not going to be a good night.
I am sorry, to all of you.
Readers,
Sialon,
And a few specific others.
I am sorry.
Regretfully,
Ashm.

Of Strength

This one is strong. He is 'better' already. He certainly looks fine. All signs of sorrow are gone. He's not happy, but he is no longer depressed. Gone is the pain, confusion, fear, and sorrow.
He is strong.
~Sialon

Free

Some of you have noticed me talking 'different'. This isn't different. This isn't unusual. This is who I am. Most of you know me as who I am at school.
This is what I'm like when I'm free. Nothing holding me back. No drugs keeping me down.
As an example, a transcript of a MSN convo I had today.

Ashm
if you could find out the date of your death, would you want to know?

*person*
I wouldn't want to know the date

Ashm
yeah, neither

*person*
I'd want to know how I died

Ashm
really?

Ashm
I'd prefer not knowing anything about it

*person*
nah, is'd be great

Ashm
otherwise you'd be so paranoid for the rest of your life

*person*
you'd be imortal up until then

*person*
nuh uh!

Ashm
no you wouldn't

*person*
I'd go the other way with it

Ashm
what, if you knew you were going to be killed by falling from a building, you go to more tall buildings?

*person*
I wouldn't be paranoid

*person*
lol

Ashm
I would

Ashm
it'd be crazy

*person*
actually, I wouldn't mind knowing the date either

Ashm
really?

Ashm
my reasoning was, I don't know it now, and life is fine the way it is, knowing it wouldn't make much of a good difference

*person*
I could totally be like 'I aint gonna die today'

Ashm
i'd prolly go crazy, doing all the stuff I wanted to do

Ashm
but it wouldn't be as good

Ashm
cos i'd start panicking

Ashm
I mean, I'm not afraid of it, but knowing when it is, would suck

Ashm
especially if you found out, and it was soon

*person*
Is this Ashm talking?

Ashm
yeah

*person*
or nay

Ashm
why?

*person*
really?

Ashm
yeah

*person*
You're talking different

*person*
lol

Ashm
lol, i dunno

Ashm
i found this on the pit

Ashm
and it got me thinking

*person*
I see


name left out 'cos I can


This is what I'm actually like. This is who pretty much none of you know. This is me free, as myself.
There are things I don't want to be free of. Some people I don't want to be free of.
Sometimes, you need someone to hold you back.

Of Sorrow and Confusion.

Ah, the sorrow. The sorrow, pain, confusion, and fear. The things my puppets go through. Humans certainly are interesting.
He tells me he's not depressed, that he'll be fine. But, I can see the pain in his eyes. The suit he wears seems to fool everyone around him, but he can't fool me. He is mine, it's my business to know what he's feeling.
You humans, with your pitiful emotions. You are the only beings I know that have such conflicting feelings. Love, a concept that brings both happiness and sadness. Healing and hurt. 'Ups and downs,' as you would say.
Only humans have such mixed feelings. For example, this particular human is, right now, sad, confused, in pain, angry, and scared. It's truly amazing.
And it provides good entertainment.
Oh, he wants me to say that this isn't real, and not to read too much into to, especially certain people. Fool, saying 'certain people' won't work. Everyone is going to know who he's talking about.
There, I said it. He is under my protection. I have to give something in return for his pitiful life.
Believe what you will.
I enjoy watching your pain.
This should be interesting.
     ~ Sialon

Of Essence and Comradeship.

It seems this one does not need to be broken.
He has already begun.
He is on the way to joining me.
He wrote this in his journal, not intending it to be published. But, I think the outcome could be entertaining.


With each slice, I forget.
With each cut, I get further away.
Each drip of blood that escapes, he takes.
Each drip of essence that I lose, he gains.
Slice, cut.
Drip, drip.
Closer to full immersion, closer to full removal.
The removal of myself from this plane.
I go.
I go to join my tormentor.
Only with Sialon shall I be free.


He will become like me.
He already shows characteristics unseen in normal humans.
This one is strong.
This one in determined.
I must be careful.
Keep him under my control.
Or he will ruin all my fun.
He can't kill all of you.
    ~ Sialon

On Beauty.

So, I've been thinking. And philophosizing. Here goes.
Beauty is not skin-deep. Nor is it in the eye of the beholder, if you take 'beholder' to mean 'one who holds.'
Beauty is a concept that differs from person to person. To one person, someone may seem plain, uninteresting. And to another, that person may be the most beautiful person they ever knew. That goes for personality as well. Beauty is more than just looks. To me, beauty is a combination of how a person looks and how a person acts, or holds him/herself. Someone who I could think looks good, and yet is the most shallow, or even over-deep, person, is not beautiful in my eyes.
However, it doesn't work that way in reverse. 'Good looks' are not a necessary part of beauty. To me, the way a person is. . . mentally, for want of a better word, takes priority over physical 'beauty.'
So, in truth, beauty to me is more mental, more personal, whatever you want to call it.
The main point of this rant is this. Recently, someone said to me "My girlfriend is hotter than yours." Quite frankly, that pissed me off. It's such a shallow, superficial thing to say. And yet, I didn't argue that point. Instead, I replied "Not to me." Which I realise now sums up my views on beauty pretty damn well. I haven't even seen this person's girlfriend, but I'm sure that to me, I won't consider her as beautiful as mine. Which also sounds shallow, but there's no easy way to put that into words. I do think it's the truth.
Now, this is going to be hard to put into words without it sounding over the top, but I'm going to try. Just a casual warning. I consider, in all honesty, my girlfriend to be the most beautiful person I know. And I want to add "and the most beautiful I don't." But, if I'm being honest, that's not entirely true. I have no way of knowing that I won't meet someone who I may end up considering more beautiful. But, at this moment in time, I consider her the most beautiful, because of who she is. That's the simplest way to put it, and it makes sense to me.
Anyway, thus ends a seemingly pointless rant. Ah well, it was helpful to me, even though it was hard to write, and harder to publish.
Just, don't read into this stuff too much.
Keep happy,
Ashm.

Memorial

He walked into the silent, empty hall. A feeling of peace washed over him, along with something else. An underlying sense of sorrow, fear, mourning. This place was full of emotion, and yet empty at the same time. The perfect place for him. He could feel the cries of long-lost souls begging for help, for remembrance. He reached out, let himself be enveloped by the spirits of the dead.
They welcomed him. He become one with the dead, felt their pain, their anguish at being taken so early. He reached out more, inviting them into his body. They responded, curious and suprised at the one person who heard after all these years.
He listened.
He understood.
He mourned with them.
He opened his soul entirely.
He breathed them in, taking strength from the energies around him.
He drew in their sorrow, their fear, their pain. Took it inside him, and kept it with him as he walked away.
He left them behind, and there they remain.
But he has not forgotten.
I have not forgotten.
I will remember them.
Lest I forget.

Of Existence And Subservience

For the few of you pitiful humans who are curious, I am not a creation of any of you arrogant maggots. I am, however, imagined by you. That does not make me any less real. I exist, both physically and imagined. I am endless. I manifest myself both physically and in your imaginations.
To those of you who are somewhat learned, I am closest in kin to the beings you call demons. The 'true Gods' as those of you who are closest to the truth call them. But, while these demons, especially the demons known as Goetic, tend to help humanity, in particular the learned Satanists, I find pleasure in the torment and destruction of your pitiful, disgusting race.
I am what your Christians based their demons on.
I am in control of the worthless human writing this. He is one of my chosen. He suffers unimaginable torment. In return, he has my protection. He has my promise of reincarnation. He has the potential to join me. I give him the gift of mental illness, and he uses it to write. The products of his twisted, tormented mind are not all published. The ones you have read are but the tip of the iceberg, as you insects are so fond of saying.
These stories give him release.
He is mine.
For I am the bane of your existence.
I am sorrow.
I am torment.
I am endless.
I am Sialon.

REWRITE!!!

You may want to turn around. Concentrating solely on a computer screen isn't very safe. It leaves no attention free for your own protection. It makes it too easy for anyone, anything, to sneak up on you. Too easy for something to grab your head, twist it, crack it, hear the satisfying crunch of your spine breaking. Too easy to maim you, to drag you out of that chair and fling you across the room, to feel the juices and blood on my hands as I gouge out you eyes, to ram my nails in between your muscles, to pull out your tendons. Too easy to rip off your skin, to pull out your hair, your teeth, your nails. Too easy to break every bone in your body, slowly, painfully. Too easy to rip your arms and legs from your body, to slice open your stomach and pull out your guts. Too easy to rip your ribcage apart, to pull out your heart and lungs in front of your very eyes. Too easy to make your very soul scream in pain and fear.
So, please. Stay aware. Pay a little attention. Look around every once in a while.
For me.

Of War and Torment

Throughout all the millenia, I have seen many truly wonderful things. Your race has flourished. You live, love, and die. But nothing is truly more amazing than your concepts of war and hate. There is nothing more satisfying than seeing one of my plans come to fruition. After decades of preparation, scheming, plotting, after all the treaties, pacts, and promises, when war is declared, it all comes together.
Countries and men become 'allies' and 'friends' and turn their backs on one another, breaking their pacts and promises, letting their so-called 'allies' squander in pain, misery, and defeat. The few years of peace created by politicians and 'visionaries' is only preparation for the next era of suffering.
Whilst taking a break from tormenting my favorite humans, while they are in the reincarnation process or are too young to terrify satisfyingly, I get to work in creating world-wide sorrow.
My current human is getting weak.
It won't be long now.

I look forward to your misery
    ~ Sialon

Chapter One - The Sialon Chronicles

Alexis awoke with a start. Glancing at the clock beside her bed, she reached out and hit the sleep button. "Just a few more minutes," she thought. "I'm so tired." Sighing, she relaxed. Life was so hectic lately. With the courses at uni, and Violet's depression, Alexis hardly got any time for herself. At least Violet was getting better. And Zeke was certainly helping. He was so cheerful, just being around him could make anyone feel better.
Sighing again, Alexis flung off the covers and swung her legs out of bed. Grabbing a top, she pulled it on and headed toward the bathroom. "I look terrible," she complained to no one in particular. The late nights certainly weren't helping. Her long brown hair was a mess of knots and split ends. The bags under her brown eyes were too visible for her liking. She grabbed a brush and started to tame her hair.
Footsteps rang through the flat. "One of the others must be up," thought Alexis. Splashing water on her face, she wandered in the general direction of the kitchen.
"Well, you look great," said a smooth voice.
"Why, thank you, Zeke. I try," Alexis replied. Zeke was one of Alexis' closest friends, the cheerful one of the group. Three years older than Alexis, Zeke had taken a few gap years between school and uni to pursue. . . other intrests. His black hair and dark green eyes never failed to attract attention, even though that combination wasn't exactly rare. Perhaps it was his height, or unusual choice of clothing. Zeke chose to dress in casual suits, wherever he went. "And you're not looking hungover at all."
"Yeah, rough night. Beyond The Shadow had a gig. And of course, then there was the afterparty," Zeke explained. Beyond The Shadow was Zeke's post-punk band. He played rhythm guitar. He was damn good too, although Alexis would never admit that to his face. His ego was swollen enough already. "Coffee?" Zeke offered.
"Yes, please," a soft voice spoke from behind Alexis.
"Morning, Violet," Alexis greeted her closest mate.
"Good morning, Alexis," Violet replied. She certainly was an oddity; that was why Alexis liked her so much. Her dark blue eyes stood out amongst her long, black hair. She was rather short, and didn't like people pointing it out. She had been just got through a real rough patch. Both Zeke and Alexis had spent a lot of time helping her through it. Alexis suspected that she was better now mainly dude to a certain plant Zeke had introduced her to, but Alexis didn't mind. As long as Violet was okay.
"So, what are we all up to today?" Zeke asked.
"I'm heading into uni for a coupla lectures, then into town," Violet answered. "What about you, Alexis?"
"I don't have any lectures today. I'll probably just hang around here. Get some writing done," Alexis replied. "A quiet day will do me good," she thought to herself.
"Well, I've got band practise at Tim's, then I'm out and about in town. You should join me for lunch, Alexis. You too, Violet, if you can make it," Zeke offered.
"I'll see what I can do," said Violet.
"Yeah, same," Alexis wasn't sure if she wanted to go out. She hadn't written anything in a while, and she missed it. There was nothing like seeing a good psychological horror unfold as her pen moved across the page.
"Alrighty then. Well, I'd better get ready," said Zeke, leaving the room.
"Now, breakfast!" exclaimed Violet.

Chapter Two - The Sialon Chronicles

Once the others had gone, Alexis got out her journal full of her writing, and read over the last few pieces of work. They were good; her stories even creeped herself out occasionally. She had a few story ideas she wanted to try out, and was absorbed into her work quickly.
An hour later, she emerged. She could've sworn she had heard footsteps. The flat was out in the suburbs, and was one storey. There was no one else home. Perhaps it was paranoia. This happened occasionally while she was writing. She went back to it, but couldn't shake the feeling of someone else being there, watching her. She kept looking up, and glancing about the room. She could have sworn something was there.
There it was again, that flash of movement in her peripherals. She would have said it was her hair, except it happened when she was completely still. Glancing about nervously, Alexis scanned the room. She froze. There, in the doorway, was a dark, black figure. Almost like a shadow, except completely solid. Alexis blinked, slowly.
Suddenly, the shadow ran off. The sound it made as it moved was horrendous. The loudest footsteps she'd ever heard. Nothing that small could make that kind of noise. Grabbing her pocket knife off the table, she flicked it open, and stalked out of the room. "Why am I doing this?" she wondered. Slowly, she checked all the rooms. No sign of. . . whatever it was. Heading back to her room, she grabbed her bag, chucked her journal, hip flask, and money in, and headed out the door. Perhaps a quiet day wouldn't help. She'd go to lunch with Zeke after all.

Prologue (part 2) - The Sialon Chronicles

You twirl around trying to find an escape. The creature screams again, an ear-piercing shriek that sends an icy chill to your very bones. As you spin around, you see that you and the creature are completely alone. The plateau that surrounds you is completely flat. There are dark mountains on the horizon. There's no shelter from the cold wind, and certainly no escape.
Turning to face the thing that brought you here, you shout raggedly, "What do you want?! Why'd you bring me here?" The thing silences it's screech. Facing you, it grins menacingly. It's teeth are sickenly pointed, as if filed down painstakingly on bone. The voice that escapes from it's mouth, however, is the polar opposite. Smooth, soft, and cooling.
"Why, don't you remember me? Not as strong this time, are we?"
"This time? What are you?"
"WHO am I? You should know, we've met before. Not in this lifetime of yours, but many, many times before. I've had such fun with you over the years."
"What are you on about? Let me go!" you shriek.
"No. Why would I do such a thing? You are mine. Have been for the last few centuries, and you will be for the rest of eternity." the creature sends a chill over you as it speaks.
"What the FUCK?! Let me GO! Please!" you beg, shaking.
"Beg all you want, you're mine, there's nothing you can do to change that. Get used to it, it's not the first time it's happened." it explains, impatiently. Frantic, you search for something to use as a weapon, even though you know fighting this thing is pointless. The creature starts pacing slowly towards you. Your hand falls on a ragged, cold rock. The being is getting close. Only a few metres away now.
Postioning the rock against the ground, you whisper, "Goodbye, Sialon." Ramming your head towards the ground, Sialon shrieks again. Your head bashes into the rock, and your skull shatters. The rock goes through your skull, between your eyes, and pulverises your brain.
"He remembered. . ." Sialon whispered.
"Until next time. . ."

Prologue (part 1) - The Sialon Chronicles

There it is again. That flash of movement, in your peripherals. Tonight's not the first time you've noticed it. But it is the first time it's happened at night. You know that, if you turn around, you'll be able to see it. For this isn't like the tales of 'Shadow People'. This doesn't disappear when you look directly at it. And it's certainly not a shadow. Shadows don't move of their own volition. And shadows definitely don't run through your house, making loud footsteps right outside your door. Shadows can't move objects. Whatever it is, it's not going to go away. It won't move until you turn around. Slowly, you turn your head, preparing yourself for what you might see. All the other times, it's been a solid, dark figure, standing, staring. But that was during the day. Now, it's past 2am. There's no one else in the house. You keep turning.
Weird, there's nothing there. It was in the corner of the lounge, but now, it's not. It always makes an unmissable, nightmarish noise when it runs off. Chillingly, you realise it must still be here. Thoroughly paranoid now, you spin back around.
A screeching bursts from the thing's face, which is inches from your own. A blank palette, with just a mouth and eyes. Cold, empty, black eyes. It's breath is cold, strangly, icily cold. And it stinks. The stench is literally breathtaking. You can't breathe. The chill spreads from your face down your spine.
Then, the screeching stops. You can breathe again. Taking a gasp of not-so-fresh air, you glance at the nightmare in front of you. One thing's for sure, you're not in your lounge anymore.
The creature is now 10 or so metres in front of you, glaring. It's ragged robe flutters around it's pale, cold ankles. It seems to emit cold. And it's arms, oh, it's freakish, unatural arms. The skin, if you could call it that, seems to be covering the bone itself. The small amount of flesh that is visible is hanging off by a rotting thread.
The terrain this horror is standing on matches it well. An icy, ragged, rocky landscape. Blue, pale blue and grey everywhere. The very sky seems to be protesting your presence. Dark, black clouds are gathering above you. The howling wind whirls between you and the creature of your dreams.

Upcoming

Keep an eye out for my first published original song.
Probably be uploaded sometime next week.

Clocks

It's silent. As it should be at this time of night. The only sound in the house is the ticking of the clock on the wall. You enjoy it at times like this. It's peaceful; the silence. The best time to think, and record your thoughts. The pad of refill beside your bed gets plenty of use.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
It's rhythmic, the clock. Soothing, relaxing. As if everything is going right.
It's times like this when your insomnia doesn't matter. You think best at this time of night, when there's no interruptions. Apart from the occasional moments of paranoia, it's perfect. And that's all they are. Paranoia. Senseless paranoia. No reason for it, apart from your imagination. It's your imagination that's turning those night-time noises and shadows into something sinister. The footsteps are clearly just one of your pets, or the groans of the old house. The scratching and tapping at your window is just a tree. The shadows in the corner, just your brain trying to make something out of nothing.
Paranoia. Paranoia and imagination. That's all it is. But then, what's making that sighing noise? The wind? Probably. At least the ticking of the clock is familiar, regular. There's no mistaking that for something else. Unless it's the slow tapping of impatient claws, or fingernails. . .
Damn your imagination. Overcome with a sudden feeling of paranoia, you just have to get up and confirm that your fears are unfounded. Using your phone as a torch, you swing your legs out of bed. The clock is just outside your bedroom door. The ticking (tapping?) is coming from the other side of your door. You sigh. Safe then. But you know that you won't be able to sleep until you're sure.
Opening your door, you look around nervously. You glance at the clock. Strange, the ticking doesn't seem to be coming from the clock. You check the time. 3.03, the clock says. You decide to get a glass of water.
Suddenly, you get a message.
"Hey, you up?"
A mate. Just a mate. Nothing sinister. But, something on your phone catches your eye. The time on there says 3.43. That's weird. You glance back at the clock. Something doesn't seem right. It's not moving. But the ticking continues.
In fear, you rush back to your room, all thoughts of water gone, and back under the covers. You're too panicky to notice that the tapping has stopped.
You hear a sigh, what you thought was the wind before. It's by the door.
You can't move.
Whatever it is has you paralysed, at it's mercy. There's nothing you can do. It sighs again, closer, and you can smell it's rancid breath.
You feel something on your leg. Sudden, unbearable pain follows. The pressure moves up your thigh, and the pain follows. It's as if your very flesh was rotting away. It reaches your stomach. If you could move, you would've screamed, doubled up in pain. It's terrible.
Your lungs collapse. You can't breathe. Then, suddenly, it's gone. The pain, it's gone. It fades. But, so does everything else. It's over. You're gone. Slowly, but surely, you die.
And slowly, but surely, the tapping starts again.

Terror - The Emptiness of I part one

It's Her again. She's back. There's no escape. It seems to be my doom to be daunted mercilessly by Her. The one path of escape I thought would work, She foiled. Now, She's taken everything dangerous. She's suicide-proofed my life. She's taken everything potentially harmful, and is using it to harm me. She's torturing me. Putting me through excruciating pain, whilst keeping me alive. She does it during my sleep, turning my one refuge into a place of pain and nightmares. I never see Her, but She speaks to me. No one else hears her. She tortures me mentally during the day, and physically at night. There's no rest. No escape. No escape from Her eternal hell. Her voice is starting again. I can't get anything done when She's talking.
Here we go again. . .

Cupboards

You know it's there. In those cupboards. Even though it's quiet, you know. You can just tell that something's there, waiting. Perhaps it's waiting for you to open the door. Perhaps, it's just waiting for the opportune moment. Maybe it's both. If you don't open the door, it might leave the cupboard when you're not looking. It'll change hiding places. The cupboard, the basement, your wardrobe, under your bed, around the corner. . .
Eventually, it will get you. And when it does. . . Let's just say it's not quick, and it's far from painless.
It enjoys killing.
Especially once you know it's there.

Sleeping?

You wake up in the middle of the night. This is unusual. Something must have happened to wake you up. You fling your arm across the bed, to comfort yourself in the presence of the person you're with. They comfort you, but can be a prick sometimes. They are fast asleep. You don't turn around; you don't want to wake them up.
Then, you hear someone in the toilet. Weird, you and your partner are the only people in the house. You notice the window being open. It was closed when you went to sleep. But no matter, it's a second story window. Nothing can get in.
Then, you hear the sound of your partner coughing in the hall.
You turn around.

Things that go 'Bump' in the night.

Of all the things that go 'bump' in the night, the being called Slender Man is probably the scariest, and most dangerous, for two reasons. One, he usually doesn't go bump. He's usually silent. He's hard to notice. But you can see him. Once he starts following you, you're doomed. He will stalk you until you're his. And once you do notice him, you will start seeing him everywhere. You will be haunted by his presence, his unnatural aura. He will be outside your window in the darkness, staring in. His unearthly arms will reach for you, slipping through the smallest of cracks. There's no escape.
Reason two: who said anything about Slender Man going bump only in the night?
What's that behind you?

Last Message

I sit here, writing this, on what is probably the last day of my life. I'm going to make the most of it, and try to relax in the sun. I just wish I didn't have to spend it alone. But that can't be helped. It's not safe to be around me. For if you were to witness my death, you would be next. She's relentless. They say that she has to knock 28 time on every door and window between you and her. But I don't want to prolong the inevitable. It would only make it worse. I've accepted my fate. I'm going to die, and soon. Any minute now. I heard her kill a telemarketer over the phone. She knows I witnessed it. They say she has unnatural powers. She could be here anytime now. There's nothing I can do. Which is why I told no one about this; they would either try to stop her, or want to stay with me. I don't want anyone else t-

WITNESS

Follow

Yo, people, follow this shit. So I don't have to keep manually adding this stuff to facebook. And it looks kinda lame, me being the only follower.
DO IT

You know you want to.

Help?

So, I have the ending to a story all sorted out, but I can't think of a reason for the character to be itching. Ideas would be appreciated.
Here's the ending.

... You awaken, panting heavily. A sigh of relief escapes from your mouth. Just a bad dream. You lie back down, relieved.
Then, your back starts to itch...

Sam's Fukuyama - not really creepy.

For those of you that live in Auckland, especially around Blockhouse Bay, you've probably seen this truck. I once saw it 5 times in one day. I see it EVERYWHERE. The same one. Same license plate. Hell, I've even seen it in Whangaparoa. So, here goes.

You are walking down to the town centre, to meet with your mates. It's a beautiful day, bright and sunny. As you walk down the street, you get the feeling someone's watching you. You shrug the feeling off, thinking "Who cares?"
There's a steady flow of traffic on the road, typical for a day like this, near the end of school holidays. Families are going out to parks and beaches, and various trucks and vans emblazoned with logos pass by. The area you live in is reasonably multi-cultural, and the trucks are labelled with things like 'Tegel's Chicken' to 'Sam's Fukuyama' Noticing these things is a regular habit for you, you don't know why, but you don't particularly care why. It does no harm.
You meet your mates, and you decide to get lunch and sit in the park. On the way, you notice the 'Sam's Fukuyama' truck and point it out to your mates, laughing at the name. They look at you bizarrely; it must have just turned around the corner. You forget all about this over the course of the day.
On the way home, you see the truck again. It seems to slow down as it passes you, but that's probably just your imagination. However, seeing the same truck three times in one day is unusual, as trucks usually just pass through your area. So when you get home, you decide to figure out what 'Sam's Fukuyama' is. Strangely enough, there's no listing for it in the Yellow Pages. Confused, you do a quick google search, but to no avail. Nothing. Searching 'Fukuyama' however, brings up nothing apart from a news article a couple of years old, about an escapee from an insane asylum.
You hear the slamming of a car door.
You look out your window.
It's Sam Fukuyama.

Meurto blanco

This is based on the Meurto blanco/white girl/white death story, if you haven't read it you probably won't get this one.
Here's the original (I think) : Meurto blanco

Footsteps.
Thud, thud.
Footsteps when it should be quiet. There's no one in the house. I'm home alone. At least, I think I'm home alone. But something has to be making those footsteps. They're getting closer. They're coming towards me.
Thud, thud.
Slowly, but surely, they're making their way down the hall towards my room. They're outside now. They've stopped. Right outside my door.
Knock.
Should I open it?
Knock.
Knock.
Whatever it is, it knows I'm here.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Perhaps it can't come in.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
All those myths about beings who can't come in unless they're invited, perhaps there's some truth to them.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
That's it, it can't get in.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
I'm safe as long as I don't open the door.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
The door's opening... Oh fu-

WITNESS

Slenderman

Here's my attempt at a Slenderman story.
Here's the Slenderman legend: http://www.mythicalcreaturesguide.com/page/Slender+Man

And here's my story.

It'll start as flashes of movement in your peripheral vison. Easily explained. An animal, car, someone walking by, anything. But then, it'll start to happen when you're alone, and this is harder to explain. But there's still plenty of viable explanations. Slowly, these falshes of movement will last longer, as if whatever it is cares lees about you noticing it. But, of course, it's nothing. Just a shadow, is all.
But soon, these visions will not only be visible in the peripherals. You will catch glimpses of movement right in front of you, on a wall, the floor, or even as something solid. Slightly creeped out, you try to find out what might be causing this. Perhaps ther's a scientific explanation for all this. Maybe it's a shadow person. But, during your various google searches, you find an urban legend about a being called Slenderman. You dismiss it as something fictional, created on some forum. But there have been reported sightings. Nah, it's fictional. It doesn't exist. Nothing to be afraid of. Bad idea.
After this, it just gets worse. You start to see him everywhere. Hiding amongst trees and buildings, following you, stalking you.
Until, one night, you are closing your window before going to bed. He is there. You see him. He is no longer hiding. There he is, standing outside your bedroom window, peering in. All thoughts of a prank go out of your head as you realise that this window is on the second floor. You freeze, staring into his dark, dark eyes. His arms extend to an unatural length, sliding towards you, into your room. Suddenly, you snap. You have to get out. You spin around, and rush out of your room. You go into the lounge and turn all the lights on, but to no avail. The tendrils are slithering towars you. There's no escape. You're cornered. You curl up, shivering. Then you feel a cool tendril curling around your neck.
Goodbye.

Whistling

Based on trufax... kinda.

There it is again. A low whistling, almost like a howl. It comes with the wind, as if the wind was causing it. That's
what most people would think. Just the wind blowing across something. Like when you blow acress the top of a bottle.
But, you know better than most people. You know that this noise is too unatural to be created by the wind. It's eerie,
and sends a chill down your spine. You've lived your life to the fullest, but there's still more to come. You don't
want to die. But this noise is not a good sign. It means your time is almost up. It means they've found you. They've been roaming this earth for centuries now, waiting for someone to remember them. You see, they operate on memory. Memory, and as long as someone in the world remembers, they reamin here. Looking to add to their ranks. Their number has remained unchanged for decades now; no one has learnt of their existence. For only when you learn of them, do they become aware of you. Anytime after you become learn of them they will come for you. It could be weeks, months, or even years before they find you. But they will. Sometimes, it's almost instant. Even as you read this, they could be on their way. There are always signs. The eerie whistling, sudden winds, coldness, and most of all, paranoia. For these beings create paranoia. Paranoia is a sign of their presence.
Just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean they're not there.

Can't sleep?

I can't sleep. This is terrible. It's 2am. I have an important meeting tomorrow. I need to sleep. But I can't, not with it sitting there, staring. That's all it ever does. Stare. It's unsettling. I don't know why it's here. I don't like people staring at me, but this gruesome thing, it's terrible. I tried staring back at it once. It stood up, crawled over to me, and snarled in my face, exposing rows of teeth, with strands of rotting flesh in between them. Ever since I've layed with my back to it. But I can feel it's glare. It's been slowly getting closer over the past few weeks. Tonight, I can feel it's breath on my neck, and hear it whispering. Whispering terrible, terrible things. Tomorrow, it'll be close enough to touch me. I'm dreading tomorrow night. But there's nothing I can do. Apart from warn everyone I know. When it's done with me, it'll move on to someone else. I say warn, but that's a lie. There's nothing you can do to stop it. By telling you all this, I've only made it worse for you.
Good luck.
You're going to need it.

A weird one.

I have walked through many wonders of this world, all throughout time. I have seen it all.
Or so I thought. For I have discovered you. There is nothing on this planet at any time more beautiful than your face, when contorted in a scream only achievable through the utmost terror. I have found a reason to stay in this world. For there is nothing in Hell comparable to this. In this, there are many lifetimes of entertainment. Yes, many lifetimes. For I shall keep you with me beyond your pitiful lifetime. Unknowingly, you shall be my plaything for millennia. You will, of course, die, as all you pitiful humans do. But I shall give you the gift of reincarnation. Well, it's a gift in my eternal eyes. A gift to myself. You shall go about your day-to-day life in a state of total paranoia. There shall be no escape, I will follow you everywhere. If you tell anyone about the terrible creature that has been following you, torturing you, they will put you in a nice, soft, quiet room. Well, it would be quiet if it weren't for your screams. For in that room, you and I would be alone.
I will enjoy your many suicides. It'll be a nice break, watching you torture and kill yourself. Because, of course, dying is no escape. The only outcome of death for you is a nice, fresh, new body, and total ignorance. A fresh start for me...
You'd better try get some sleep. You have a long day ahead of you.
Not that I'll let you sleep, of course.

And Another...

I spent pretty much all of last night writing stories like these. Enjoy.

You might want to turn around. Concentrating solely on a computer screen isn't very safe, you know. You never know what might happen. Anything could sneak up behind you, and suprise you. Anything could rip your head from your neck, and gouge your eyes out in front of everyone around you. Anything could dismember you, disembowel you.
And that would ruin the fun for me...

The First of Many

The first story to be published =D

You think you're safe during the day? Are you only afraid at night? When it's dark? Is daytime your escape from nightmares, from bogeymen and murderers, from the things out to get you?
Well, it shouldn't be. Just because it's light doesn't mean you're safe. Yes, there are the few of us who are able to brave the daylight. I can see you. Watching those videos, reading those stories you didn't want to in the dark. In fact, some of us are like you humans. For some of us, the day is our time. Some of us prefer it to the night. Do you want to know why?
It's because during the day, you're not expecting it.

Welcome

Huh. I have a blog. Go figure.
Anyway, this will be filled up with whatever. Be it song lyrics I've written, stories, or even poetry, you'll find it here. Along with anything else I may decide to post, fictional or not.
Enjoy,
Ashm