First day

Someone told me, "today is the first blank page of a three hundred and sixty five page book. Make it a good one. In response, I wrote this in about fifteen minutes. I've tried to make it relate-able to a few people and so I was careful not to be gender specific.

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I woke up halfway through the day, my eyes blurry and my head pounding. I was on someone's couch- but whose, I wasn't sure. The acrid scent of vomit permeated throughout the room, and with a guilty realisation I knew it was my own.

Stumbling over the empty bottles on the floor and unconscious individuals I barely recognised, my mission was clear- to find my pants. I had removed them sometime during the night in a game of strip poker I must not have lost, considering my shirt was still hanging off me. The television was on and several people were already drinking coffee and watching cartoons. None of them looked up as I passed by.

Climbing the stairs I continued my journey, my throat desperately begging me for a glass of water. Finding the bathroom, I turned on the sink and cupped my hands under the cool water. Taking deep gulps, I was able to momentarily satisfy my thirst. Splashing some water on my face to clear my head, I looked up at the dirty mirror to see a face I didn't know. Bloodshot eyes, stiff hair piled upon my head like a haystack and some sort of strange, brown substance smeared itself on my chin. I rubbed it off and was relieved when it wasn't blood.

Peering carefully into each of the bedrooms, I found several of my friends had decided to pair up for the night, including, to my annoyance, my ex, who was in the master bedroom with someone I didn't even know. At the end of their bed it so happened was my pants, and I quickly snatched them up and pulled them on before leaving the bastards to their slumber. Out of a moment of spite, I decided to leave the door wide open.
Finally able to leave, I say a hasty goodbye to the host, who is enjoying cereal on the couch. He gives me a vague smile and a puzzled look as he tries to recall exactly who I am before I turn away and open the door into the bright and early afternoon.

As I make the ashamed walk home I get a call from my friend, asking if I've forgotten anything. Quickly checking my pockets I realise he's right. My wallet's gone.

December

I composed this a few weeks ago on a trip. I had nothing to do but wait, no internet access and so I decided it would be a good time to write a poem. This was done in about twenty minutes. I didn't think to upload it until now.

-Amino

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Australia -a great expanse

Of desert winds and sand

We live upon the coastal edge

Of this great southern land.

Christmas is not snow for us

Nor jackets, boots or cold

But scorching sun and hats and shorts

And thongs for young and old.

Our Santa has no elfish cap

No sleigh and no reindeer.

He wishes that we leave no milk

But a cold and frosty beer.

He drives a Ute with gifts in back

And leaves them at the door.

We have no chimneys to climb down

Yet barbeques galore.

We hold our old traditions

Our culture keeps us strong

For December is our summer

And as such our days are long

With cockatoos to wake us

And bats to signal night

The Christmas Beetles show up

Wherever there is light

You’ll find our people friendly

Without a given reason

There’s nowhere I would rather be

To celebrate the season.

A loss

When will I speak to you next?

When I can no longer remember your face clearly.

When I can no longer close my eyes and imagine your lips against mine or look into those eyes and feel wanted.

When my dreams tire of showing you to me and I can sleep soundly for the first night since you left.

When I can no longer hear the whispers of broken promises in your voice echoing through my mind in the silence of an empty house.

When my heart settles itself instead of tearing between rage and sorrow, and the oceans of my consciousness have calmed and stilled; the serenity shattered when Fate decreed you would meet the boy you now claim to love.

The day I recognise with complete confidence that you were never going to believe I was worth keeping is the day I will speak to you as a friend- and not a broken man who was too foolish to see he never stood a chance.

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Normally I don't keep personal things where others can see it, but I liked this poem that I thought of during a walk and it would be a shame to forget it.

The beach

It's a gray day, and the storm clouds are gathering. I stand at a small beach with my brother. The waves are getting more and more restless. A small gray shark washes up on the shore, already dead. My brother approaches it. I tell him to stay back, thinking it's dangerous. A great white then washes up on shore. It's dying, struggling feebly to move on the beach. The waters rush up to meet us before pulling back again. A killer whale washes up on shore, much closer. My brother gets close to it.

The killer whale is still alive. It tries to attack him. He backs away but the waves are getting bigger, reaching our chests, knocking us off our feet. The whale swims closer to us. We both try to swim away.
The next wave hits. It covers both of us. Suddenly there are bodies everywhere. My brother is gone. The corpses are horribly mutilated. Some have half their hair missing, the remaining tangled around their necks like a tight noose. The entrails from their stomach drift slightly out. Their lips have been eaten away so they bare destroyed teeth at me.  They float under the water, rotating slowly, but whenever they turn to face me I can see them staring at me. All of them still have eyes, with tiny black pupils sunken into their heads. They are the most horrifying faces I can imagine and I see them all with incredible detail. Why am I alive and not them? They accuse me silently. But they don't move. None of them attack, or try to pull me under.
I sense the whale still after me. I cannot look back at it, my only hope is to move forward, trying to put as much distance from it as I can and find some land.
There are too many bodies in the water. I'm forced to push some aside. They only move a little but it is enough for me to break onto the surface and into the bleak landscape. The water is endless and turning from gray to red by the second. The only landmass is a chunk of twisted metal rising up beneath the sudden sea.
People aren't the only bodies. There are huge fish in the water, chunks missing from them so large I can see the bone. I take hold of a stingray without realising, but it is already dead and harmless.
There are people on the metal island waving towards me. I swim to them and they pull me up on a small ledge. I ask them what has happened, before noticing they haven't been harmed at all. Their movements are jerky and they have no expression.
They aren't people. They're mannequins.


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This is a dream I had a  few nights ago. After I noticed they weren't people I woke up. Upon trying to go back to sleep, I found that I couldn't  reproduce the bodies, or the mannequins. All I could imagine was the metal island and the gray sea.
Those corpses were the most horrifying thing I'd ever seen, and they were in far more detail than someone who had never seen a corpse in real life to imagine.

Flat tire

Here you go guys. This is a very simple draft that I wrote in about ten minutes, having thought of it on a late walk home. Don't think too harshly on it.

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You're driving along the highway at night when your headlights show a silhouette of a man. He's wearing an old trench coat and a large hat, similar to a sombrero. He holds his hand out and thumbs you to slow for him.
You slow down to pick him up, and he comes up to the driver's window. The shadows and his hat hide his face, and he speaks with a slight Texan accent. "Much obliged sir, I'd been wondering whether anyone would stop for me. My car's gotten itself a flat tire and I was hoping someone would be kind enough to help me fix it."
You get out of your seat to see the man's car and he leads you just slightly off the main highway.
In the driver's seat of that car though, you can see someone sitting there. A woman. She's not moving, and the man behind you simply says, "my wife."
You wave and say a casual hello to the woman, but she doesn't move. As you get closer you can see why. The woman has been impaled on her seat by a large knife- it goes through her chest and embeds itself in the seat behind, keeping her propped upright. Blood still drips from the wound, showing it was only recent. Her throat has been slashed open, and the crimson shines softly in the headlights.

You stop and gape, feeling sick. But it gets worse. She has no vocal cords and thus no voice, but her head turns and looks at you. "Run," she mouths. A single word. Frozen until now, you break free of her paralyzing stare to sprint back to your car. You jump into your seat and take off into the night, driving away from the horrific scene.
Suddenly, you hear a loud "POP!" as the front tire explodes and you frantically swerve and brake. Finally, you come to a complete stop, just off the highway.
Breathing heavily, you wonder what could have caused the sudden explosion, but the hairs on the back of your neck raise as in your rear view mirror you see the silhouette of a man with a large hat walking towards the car. Panicking, you try to start the car up, but it won't work.
The last thing you see is a flash of steel as a blade is drawn across your neck.

The man, his work finished, moves out onto the highway, and after a few minutes sees the headlights of a car coming. He walks out and holds up his thumb, signaling them to stop.

Update

I know I haven't been posting much here, not that I expect many people to be reading this anyway. I have several half-written stories I haven't finished because I refuse to upload them unless they are sufficiently completed.
Nevertheless, I have the drive to write a longer-fantasy based adventure story that's been on my mind for a little while. I'll release it in chapters  most like, whenever I finish each one.
-Amino

A Fallen Kingdom

The man trudged through the forest, the soft grass by the river silencing his footsteps. Everything was quiet. The cool breeze that had followed him for a time faded, and so no leaves stirred. Only the soft babble of the water reminded him he was not deaf. The trees watched him as he walked, glaring mutely. He was not welcome here. He was no longer welcome anywhere.

The last rays of light had vanished beyond the horizon when he reached the outskirts of the ruins. It was an enormous labyrinth of fallen stone and rotting wood. Grass had grown through the cracks in the pavement. Moss clung to the old walls while vines hung from towers whose roofs had long-since collapsed. The stench of rot had faded since he was last here, replaced by the smell of the forest. This place was already beginning to be reclaimed by nature. His worn boots made small thuds as he stepped onto the stone path leading into the dead city. A building to his left was still recognisable, the large oven holding the burnt remains of its owner's final meal. A skeleton with tattered clothes lay near the doorstep, a rusted sword sticking out of its ribcage. The man remembered him- a jovial lad who showed much promise as his father's son. On numerous occasions had he come down to the store to sample the boy's pastries. He would always let the man take one for free whenever he passed by, eagerly seeking approval for his talent in the kitchen. He would have been a father himself by now.

A large crater in the middle of the street blocked the man's way. It was too large to climb around, and so he turned into an alleyway and moved up a set of stairs. Shadows concealed him, hiding him from the accusing dead. He stopped. There was movement ahead. The man held his breath. The shuffling was louder, moving towards the exit of the street. For the briefest of seconds he glimpsed the four legs, the red eyes, the gaping mouth. Then it passed, never knowing the man was there. He let out his breath, slowly, and waited, counting the moments in his head until he was assured it would not return. The shuffling faded. The man left the alley.

Back into the main street, the man couldn't see where the creature had gone. He did remember seeing it in a cage once, being carried away to the dungeons with all the others. That was when they had first started appearing. The things who had been threatening the city. Now there was no dungeon, nothing to stop them from roaming freely.

More bodies lined the street, some thrown against the sides of buildings near small craters, others riddled with arrows. One small skeleton had its hand curled up into a fist, clutching at something that had long since vanished. The man bent down into the overgrown grass and picked a yellow flower. He walked over to the skeleton and placed it in its hand. It was the same species he had given her earlier that fateful day. He hadn't realised until after he saw the body how much it had meant to her. He straightened himself and wiped away a tear. He could no longer remember her name.

The buildings cleared away to a tangle of grass and trees, rotting benches poking out of the tops of the green blades. Rising from the sea like a ghost was  the white marble stage, still standing. Despite himself, the man smiled sadly. He had performed on that stage, playing the villain who was to be struck down by the hero of the play. He had volunteered for the role to entertain the children. They had laughed and clapped when he dramatically fell down, holding the wooden sword under his arm. They all helped him up afterwards, cheering for him instead of the hero. He was their real hero.
The man had to look away at that point.

The castle loomed ahead of him now, a crumbling fortress that guarded its city like a gravestone protects its dead. Vines grew here, too, replacing the colourful banners that had once adorned its walls. The red carpet remained, faded almost into the gray of the walls. The man ascended the steps, taking care not to trip. More skeletons were splayed out across the staircase, these ones mainly wearing rusted chain-mail over ruined tunics. He stepped through the broken remains of once-great wooden doors and into the castle itself.

The throne room was always the worst. Signs of battle were evident here, a futile last stand against an impossible enemy. More craters. More bodies. One of the four majestic pillars that had lined the great hall had fallen, and moonlight streamed in from the ceiling. Suits of armour guarded the ruins, eternally watching, their swords pointed down at their feet. Some had fallen in the conflict, others taken apart, breastplates and helmets worn by the skeletons. There was a specific statue he was looking for. The last of the column, wearing no helm and holding no sword, but instead a crown, resting upon its headless shoulders.

His crown.

The man reached up and took the crown, holding the emerald-studded gold in his hands for the first time since he placed it there, so long ago. He placed it on his head and it fit perfectly among his matted brown hair. He strode up to the throne itself and sat down, adjusting the tatters of his coat. From there, he gazed down at the scene laid before him. The open doors gave him a good view of the destruction of the street he had walked, the ruined throne room.

His throne room. His castle. His kingdom.

He was king of a dead city and had a crown of gold to show for it.

The man sat, unmoving, as memories flooded him. The civilian bursting into the room, an arrow in his back, pointing at the city before collapsing. Telling the royal guards to go investigate. Taking the helm and sword from the statue, prepared to fight for the kingdom he had raised up. Seeing the creatures pouring from the gaping hole in the dungeon he had placed them in, swarming over the streets.

It was a massacre.

In no time at all they had reached  the steps of the castle. Civilians rushed past him to sanctuary as he stood with the guards, hacking and slashing. Falling back. Barricading the doors.

Nothing stirred. Still no breeze. In his mind though, the laughter echoed through the shell of the room. As he sat on his throne he could still hear the girl's laughter as the jester juggled his torches, feel the warmth of a hand clasping his as a woman stood to his side. He clenched his hand and felt nothing but cold air. The laughter died. He opened his eyes to an empty ruin. At the bottom of the stairs he could see a sword, discarded when he had realised they needed to run. Dust clung to it now, maroon stains on the blade from his efforts outside. They had breached the doors and the soldiers would not hold them off much longer. Standing, the man followed the scene. He watched the apparitions as they fled down the hallway. They had expected to escape from the East tower, but it was already overrun. The rubble was still there. He peered down into the chasm in the tunnel caused by the explosions. It was too large a gap to jump. On the other side he could see the helmet he had worn, thrown off him from the blast, separating the man from his family. Dodging the creatures, he had run, calling back to his family to take another way around, promising to meet them in the forest.

There were no bodies here. They must have run back.

The man returned to the throne room, breaking into a run. He ran through the empty hallway, checking rooms. Ashes. More bodies. Up some stairs. Through a window he could see the East Tower. He remembered reaching the balcony, the monsters close behind him. Stepping up onto the ledge. Giving them a military-style salute. Falling- no, jumping- backwards. Feeling the rush of air on his skin, pulling at his hair and beard. Hitting the water. Pain, but no death.

The man turned from the window. Ascended another staircase. The last room at the end of the hallway. His bedroom. The doors rotted on their hinges. He had never come this far in his previous return visits. He didn't want to accept it. They were still out there, looking for him.

The curtains around the bed had fallen to the floor, ripped from the railing. The bed covers were slashed. The stench of rot was still in this room. Moonlight streamed in from the open window, illuminating the scene inside. Curled up on top of the bed were two skeletons wearing the remains of fine clothing. The larger one clutched the smaller one, shielding it from a danger that could not be stopped. A sword lay across the foot of the bed, carelessly tossed after the deed was done. The blood still stained the blade.

The man crossed the room, knelt down in front of the bed and wept.