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