Let Them Eat Distortion

My eyes wake in these black skies

When I find answers, I'm torned by signs

- Tesla.

- - -

The chromatic view of the sky above Atiak was one of pure wonder for his own lucid mind. The occasional insect reminded him of the colorless reality and pushed his dream sequence further from him. Partially, he wanted to be in such a world invariably, as the one where reality resided seemed monotonous compared with the harsh design of his imagination. Or rather, amenable with everyday life. There was no fight, no retaliation. To Atiak; there was just nothing worth moving for right now and the azure skies were enough to let drowsiness progess on its course and slip into his conciousness. However - daylight was too clear and lucent to have any influence on sleep. Instead, he took it upon himself to cleanse his mind while clouds over head dragged away thoughtlessly.

- - -

In your darkest days, when you feel lost. Fear the darkness. It binds you, and imprisons you. It saves you, and revives you when you leave. The darkness is your friend, it can do no wrong. But even friends can be deceptive.

In your brightest days, when you find your way. Ardor the light. It frees you, and liberates you. It asphyxiates you, and poisons you. Feeding you lies until you bleed them from your own mouth. But even liars can be truthful.

"Me"

To all the school bullies who made fun of me because I put my hand up in class,
To all the boys, who never spoke to me, but still looked at my ass,
And to all the parents and children who loved me for volunteering in the library, thank you.
For all the usernames on YouTube who still find time to hate,
The shop assistants and waiters, handing me bills and plates,
The daydreamers on the college bus and the late sleepers next door who, no matter how many times played, still love Adele's "Someone Like You".
And all the musicians I have played but never met, all the writers I have read and inspire to be, thank you.
To all the teachers who gave me E's and A stars,
All the nurses who went an extra mile far and my parents, for loving me and my weirdness.
For my sister who is way cooler than I could ever be,
All the old crushes, the "gorgeous" ones who didn't know me,
My friends who made me laugh and my boyfriend who made me laugh harder. Thank you.
But right now, I thank the platform on which I stand, my plaited good luck bracelet on my left hand and Blue Peter, who interviewed Jacqueline Wilson, who - and I quote - said "anyone can write".
I thank your parents for letting you loose in this metallic jungle, I thank the gods of imagination, there has to be more than one, and I thank all the hearts, lungs and brains around me.
Because I am me, this girl of 18, stood in quivering fear and awe that my idea is vocalised out to you.
I don't care about the idiots, who does, right?
I don't care for every enemy I've had to fight,
And I don't care for the tales of the monsters at night, for those tales lie and those monsters are no more grotesque than you or I.
So I thank you all, for making me "Me", for my 6 pounds and 8 ounces of life and 1993.
And you're welcome, for I hope this has somehow made yourself more "You" and nothing more.
Thank you.

Just an extract from something quite a bit longer and significantly more depressing that I wrote

You get lost inside story worlds to protect yourself, those inside your head and on written pages. You wish you could be like the characters in a novel, created and controlled by some unbidden force, that of the author. You feel that life would be so much simpler this way. Then you curse yourself, because what, really, is an author if not a God? Molding his people to be whom he wants, setting their paths clearly ahead of them, allowing no alternative. No, an author is worse than a God, an author can murder and destroy what you grasp onto relentlessly and without consequence. He can manipulate your emotions and drag you into a world that you cannot escape from, that resides in your memory far after you have laid down to rest. He keeps you awake at night. You envy him.

Just One Sentence...

The lights flickered precariously as if foretelling the extinguishing of life; groans and snarls raised a hellish cacophony just beyond the crumbling barricades; and with a machete in one hand and a jammed Glock in the other, I settled down against the far wall and tried to come to terms with the thought that I wasn't getting out of this alive.

In Class

"Wow! Look at this!" Miss Sharples grinned, "intensive creative writing!"
"Well I have been doing it for a few years," Ross said, before once again smashing his fingers down against the keyboard. It was actually quite distracting.
Everyone else was writing ratrher attentively, only stopping from time to time to scribble out mistakes, glance nervously at one anothers word count, or sing 'Granger Danger' in their heads.
Daisy seemed to have finished. She sat motionless and twiddling her thumbs.
"Why've you written my name?" Daisy asked, followed by a declaration of her complete work, which unfortunately does not leave enough time in this story for the imminant arrival of the spaceshipsd  which are, obviously, at this moment, working there way towards St. Mary's College, whereby the 6 students will take up arms against the foe, sacraficing the teacher for the greatest good and protection of the planet.

Stage

"Well... You're not posh," the man said in the shadowed auditorium, his cigar smoke rose and hit the stage light. The woman, the one to the right, looked bashful, she had an "English Rose" look about her,
"What other songs do you sing?" the man then asked, the woman gulped loudly and replied with,
"What do you want me to sing?"
The man smiled. This wasn't her first audition.
"Somewhere over the rainbow, lose the accent and give me emotion, alright?" he snapped, the woman's large blue eyes squeezed tight before she opened her mouth and sang out the opening lines of the song.
You could have heard a pin drop.

Infamous Black's life

chapter one.

0ur setting is in the wild west, and about a man who is feared by so many including the law.

In a small town, there came on a black horse, a man, a man that had such a reputation towards how skilled he was when it came to murdering and tracking down people, he could literally hunt them like a dog.

the man, who was named Infamous then climbed off his horse, who was known as Black. he then tethered him up. he then entered the pub, throwing open the shutters. his presence then resulted in complete silence; everyone stared, his instincts told him to not lower his guird. he clenched on to his gun he walked to the bar woman and orders 7 shots of whisky. As he drank, his sencis then told him that the was an armed man with a knife slowly advencing opon him from behind. "sit down you do not know me, and what i can do" he knew that he was not lisening. Infamous that gave a lone sigh. Then using the speed of what only a nija could acheve. Infamous leped from his chair, and used the man own knife agenced him and then sliced  though him.

to be continuied

writen by l.d.s.b.folame

Untitled

It was 4/12/2048. It was as if the 19 year old knew where I lived. Just outside the flat I could hear someone coming and I knew that the sound from the stairs told me the way this person was moving that she was coming for me. The sound of the footsteps stopped outside my door...

L.D.S.B Fulham

The Box

I couldn't avoid answering the door forever. I looked through the peephole once again and saw how guilty she seemed to look. She never really had been good at trying to keep things hidden. Her hair was not its usual orange silk, but had become tangled and messy. Her clothes seemed creased and were worn in such a way that suggested she had been wearing them for quite a few days. In her hands she held the little black box. Our secret. The thing we had been trying to create for almost ten years.

Her hands seemed to be straining with the weight of it, and the madness in her eyes kept me from letting her inside. The thing we had always dreamt about, an escape from our own reality, right there in that box. But there were consequences. People would die if that box was to open. And I had helped to create it.

I slid my back down the wall and landed on my knees, planting my face in my hands. If I admitted that I did not want to be involved then I would lose the only friend I had ever had. The only person in the world who could understand my thoughts better than I could. However, if I did go though with it, thousands of people's lives would be at risk. Because of us.

-R

Believe.

Daria lay silently in her bed, on the bridge between sleep and conciousness. Her bedroom door lay open, exposing the landing; a soft breeze blew in from the an open window above the staircase. Daria shivered.

It was Christmas Eve, and Daria had been trying to coax herself to sleep for almost two hours. Though there was a non-stop merry-go-round of thoughts circling aound her head. She knew that Father Christmas didn't leave presents for children who didn't sleep on Christmas Eve, and this terrified her, but getting to sleep was a lot more challenging than she had thought it would be. She couldn't stop imagining how wonderful the next day would be, opening all of her presents, seeing her family again; even though most of them had fallen out over something quite silly, and would probably refuse to talk to each other. But Daria didn't mind, as long as they were all together once again.

She turned to her side, still trying to force herself into sleep. While doing this she opened her eyes for just a second, and what she saw made her shut them again almost immediately. She had caught a glance of a large, red-cheeked face framed by a waterfall of white hair, which held a beard so magnificently white it had seemed as though it was glowing. Father Christmas had come upstairs to check on her on his visit, and she hoped more than anything that he hadn't seen her open her eyes.

She didn't dare to open her eyes again after that, but was amazed at the wonderful being she had just caught sight of. She had seen Father Christmas! He existed. She had proof! And from this night onwards, Daria would tell of this experience to any person who refused to believe in him. He was real, and she knew it.

Always believe.

-R

Through the Peephole

by Ross Butterly

I couldn't avoid answering the door forever. Swallowing as if to drive down my apprehension, I turned the handle and pulled the door open. The officer almost collapsed across the threshold, staggering unsteadily into my home.

"Thank God you're in," he panted, sounding as though even that short utterance had sent waves of pain through his body. He clutched weakly at a gaping wound in his side, trying to hold shut a collection of vicious cuts and tears in his flesh. I stifled a wretch at the sight as his hand slid away, and hurriedly led him across the room, lowering him onto my sofa with great care.

"What the hell happened to you?" I shot back. I hadn't heard such urgency in my own voice in a long time.

"I have no idea," he groaned. His blood had already begin to seep into the upholstery, but that was the least of my concerns at the moment. I doubled back across the room, shutting the front door. "I was chasing a youth brandishing a knife into the old mill across the way," he continued, "and some... thing attacked me."

I dreaded to imagine what kind of weapon - or what kind of person - could inflict such a wound.