Reflective Judgement ( Poem )

I – The Manifestation

A forest, beautiful, resplendent in green vitality spreads out before me,

Gracing human perception with vividness unearthly,

Far from the worries of the dark realm known as the world,

A painting of life going on through eternity

A spectacle, however, doomed to be maligned,

As an unknown insanity adds its own design,

The strokes of a brush wildly swung from left to right

Turn even the greatest beauty into a fright,

Winds, harbingers of sorrow begin to rise

Hostility pervades the peace,

The air is rent with my cries

Upon beholding the Queen of the Night.

II – The Beholding

Paler than white, with tresses darker than black

The demon maid stares at me,

Deep, dark oceans of Evil pulling, drowning my sanity,

I scream, dismayed by the horror of the attack.

A crow clacks menacingly above,

The only life left to the peace

Watching, with a disgusting love

The face of Terror manifest

I behold her once more, even as she beholds me

Her visage a mask that reeks of insincere beauty

Behind it, a stench of age old death, seasoned with pain newly bloodied

With no pretense of austerity

III – The Truth

Unearthly beauty is now unearthly fear,

As the forest that once was fades away

Replaced by an endless void, with darkness ever too near,

Leaving me facing the figure, yet with infinity to stray

As we watch each other, my fear only grows

And I step back, towards oblivion

But strangely, she follows the same action I chose,

Her eyes boring into mine, four black orbs of obsidian

The perilous beauty of the Truth dawns on me,

A bittersweet light amidst the fear,

Only to a mirror did I adhere

All of my horrifying fantasy

Graveyard of Glory ( Rewritten )

There’s so many of them…!

Janus Kolby sat mounted on his horse, surveying the scene ahead of him. The three stripes on his right shoulder indicated that he was a strzelec of the Polish army, and the stars on the other signified that he was a member of the 18^th Uhlan Regiment. He seemed a young man, maybe of eighteen years of age, and his whole body quivered with tension. His pupils were vibrating with a manic energy, burning black stars in a vast field of white.

He looked again at the incredible scene ahead of him, unable to tear his eyes away from it. Over a thousand German tanks were advancing through the lush Polish countryside towards the border village of Krojanty. The tanks were as an invasive virus in the scenery, man-made tools of destruction ruining the beauty of pristine Krojanty and the deep, lush, leafy forest that formed a green wall around it.

The tanks purred on at a steady rate, heading straight for the forest. It would take them a while to get there yet.  Giant metal behemoths. The greatest of all of the steeds of war.

And I’m going to have to fight them. That’s delusional! Uhlans can’t destroy tanks!

Janus had never before imagined that joining the military would be anything like this. For him, it had initially been a peaceful job, something that he would enjoy, something allowing him to serve his country.

I wasn’t supposed to get tangled up in a bloody war!

Janus fumed to himself for a moment, then started impatiently fidgeting on his horse. Waiting for the Kapitan to begin the ambush was allowing his tension to build up further and further. His thoughts were already darting towards the possible disastrous consequences of the attack.

What if they’re expecting the attack? What if we can’t beat them all? There’s not so many of us anyways, and besides, they’re on bloody tanks! What if we lose? We might all die! Why am I stuck here in this mess?

This was nothing like his early days in the military. Back then it had just been him and his comrades, proudly declaring that they were eager to serve their country in any way they could.

Now that it’s come to it, though, I’m being rather a hypocrite, aren’t I?

The offhand thought passed through Janus’ mind, and he grimaced. Had he really once proclaimed openly that he would die for Poland? Had it been him who had claimed that he would slay all his enemies, no matter how strong?

I was a fool. And now that I’m here, I can see how wrong I was. Real war is different. I don’t want to die. It would be so…-so WRONG! This isn’t supposed to happen!

Janus’ thoughts reached an overwhelming crescendo of despair, and he allowed a groan to escape his mouth. He decided to look at the village of Krojanty, hoping that the breathtaking scenery would capture his attention.

It really was a most stunning place. A picturesque village with a quaint sort of feel to it was nestled comfortably on the fringe of the massive, lush, and beautiful forest. Just by staring at it, some of Janus’ tension seemed to disappear. But not enough. He was still frightened.

When did I first start feeling like this, anyways?  It was only yesterday, wasn’t it?

He had been ordered by the military head at the barracks to join the 18^th Uhlan Regiment and go to Krojanty. Initially, he hadn’t taken it very well. All his false illusions of military life seemed to fall apart in front of his eyes, and he had gone and sobbed shamefully in a corner, berating himself all the while for being such a coward. He had felt horrible cheated by life, and it was in a sulky manner that he had first come here.

Most of it had worn off by now, though, only to be replaced with a powerful, gnawing fear.

Why don’t the others look scared? Is it only me? Am I a coward? Oh God, I wish I had a friend here!

Janus was distracted from his tumultuous thoughts as the Kapitan approached him. He was by far the oldest soldier there, almost old enough to be retired. He had a kind, fatherly air around him, and was much loved by all the soldiers.

“Nervous, Janus?” The Kapitan asked kindly.

Janus stumbled for a moment before replying, but decided to be honest.

“Terrified,” he mumbled, shamefacedly, scratching the side of his face.

The Kapitan chuckled upon hearing his reply, and spoke encouragingly to him “Don’t worry; I was much the same before my first battle. It gets much better once the fighting starts and you don’t have time to think about all the possible ways it could go wrong anymore. Besides, this is nothing. I don’t put much faith in these tank machines, we can always outmanoeuvre them. We shall meet them with fire and sword.  What an energetic boy like you ought to see is a REAL battle, like the ones in the Great War.”

“Sir…you were in the Great War?” Janus was amazed. He was amazed.

He’s a hero! A real, live, Polish war hero! Maybe we still have a chance after all!

The Kapitan’s eyes twinkled as he replied, “Yes, I was indeed. And I can assure you I felt much the same as you before my first battle. Don’t you worry about a thing, young man. Just enjoy the fun. Trust me, it’ll be the most exhilarating experience you’ve ever had.”

Janus fell completely victim to the paternal air of the Kapitan, and let out his greatest, and most shameful fear.

“Sir…do you think that we’re all going to lose? …To-to die?” He practically stammered the words, unable to say them without feeling an intense feeling of shame. But to his great surprise, the Kapitan only laughed, a tuneful chortle that gave the misleading impression of a much younger man.

“To die? We may, and yet we may not. Does it really matter all that much?”, he asked. “I found out the secret to enjoying life long ago, during the last war. It’s to stop worrying. Some things may go well, others may not. Accepting this makes everything easier, doesn’t it? All that can ruin your life is that horrible feeling, worry. It clouds everything else, and forces you to see the beautiful world as a hellish, god-forsaken place.  So, my advice is that you simply don’t worry. Only the good God can see the outcome of our battle.”

He cast a last friendly glance at Janus, and then spoke again, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get the troops into position. I’d suggest you get to your post too, young man!”

Janus watched him ride away; calling out orders to the Uhlans, and it was as though a great weight had lifted from his chest. He had found a friend, it seemed.

Maybe this isn’t so bad after all. We might just win this war yet. And if not, what does it really matter anyways!? We’ll have done our best, and we’ll die defending our country. What more can I wish for?

The Uhlans had all assembled, and were arranged in rows of a hundred. It was an awe-inspiring scene, thousands upon thousands of men with gleaming weapons mounted on their horses, facing down a slope which led to the forest of Krojanty. It was a scene right out of a fairy tale.

Janus was in the front ranks, and his tension had all but disappeared. He felt astonished by its absence. It had been replaced with a feeling of hope, a desire to do his best. The forces arranged, the Kapitan turned around to face them and spoke.

“Fellows! Comrades! Friends! It seems as though it’s finally time for us to begin. Before we charge, I want each and every one of you to know that the people of Poland will be forever indebted to you, and your actions on the battlefield today will determine the future of our beloved country.  Today, you show yourselves to be men! To be soldiers! To be heroes! And now, we charge! Onward, heroes of Poland!”

The Uhlan’s charged, tearing down the beautiful slope at a breakneck pace, dashing through the scenic landscape like a bowshot.  Janus felt empowered to see such vital energy in all his friends. The Kapitan had done his job well, and they were now all as ready to fight as Janus. He laughed enthusiastically as they rode.

They will sing about us for decades to come! We’ll be the immortal heroes of Poland!

As the cavalry neared the tanks, they began to sound the horns of war, massive bellowing sounds emanating from among the ranks of horses. It was time! They would all prove their worth!

The tanks were taken completely by surprise as the first ranks of Uhlans fell upon the frontline of infantry defense. Janus charged in, and looked into the eyes of a German soldier, stabbing him as he passed. Even though he was rushing by, he saw the man die, saw the light leaving his eyes. And he felt a new feeling rise in his chest, taking the place of the fear which had been there only minutes ago.

I have power. They cannot best me. What are they fighting for, anyways? I’m fighting for a reason! There’s no way that they can defeat me!

He had enjoyed it. Enjoyed seeing the man die. And Janus learned one of the truths of the world then. The only two types of people were the predatory and the prey. He had been the prey up until now. But it was oh-so-much more satisfying to be a predator.

He slit another German’s throat in his next rush, watching the red nectar seep out from his neck as he inevitable surrendered to fate and succumbed to the wound.

Within seconds, the infantry defenses were decimated. But by now, the tanks were ready to fight. As the cavalry charged them, trying in vain to damage them, they were taken off guard. A tank had fired. The shell exploded near a group of Uhlans, piercing the sky with the sound of a massive explosion. The sudden silence which followed was terrifying. And then, there were more explosions.

The Poles screamed and broke formation, spreading out randomly into the battlefield, trying only to avoid the devastating shells. The tanks fired, again, and again. Grown men cried, hundreds screamed, and horses ran amok. What had only minutes ago been a victorious charge was now a massacre.

What? We’re losing? But…how?

Searching for the reassuring face of the Kapitan, Janus scanned the battle. His eyes fell upon him almost at once, and he screamed.

“Sir! What should we do? We cannot match these monsters!”

The Kapitan looked at Janus, and was about to speak, when a shadow fell over him. A shell was about to land. He looked straight up at the men who had rallied to him, and gave them a comforting, kindly smile.

But then he was gone, gone in an explosion of fire and smoke, a terrifying pandemonium of limbs and shrapnel. The Poles screamed in unison. Their leader was gone; they had no chance any longer. And then they began to run, to flee, doing whatever it was that they could to get away from the horrifying battle.

Janus looked on helplessly as they were cut down by oncoming shells. Fleeing was only serving to have his allies slain faster. Where there had only minutes ago been a peaceful forest there was now devastation, a wildfire, a graveyard to be.

However, he had no intentions to flee. He was at peace with himself after the Kapitan’s words, and decided that he would stay and die for Poland. And then, an incredible rage took over him. These foreigners had stained his country. They had sown Her fields with the blood of Her own children! The vile, two faced, monsters! He would kill them all!

By some luck, he was still alive, and he meant to make the most of it. He dashed forwards, slashing wildly at the nearest tank. He had gambled on the fact that if he was near enough to attack a tank, then the others would not dare to fire at him, in fear of damaging their ally. So far it seemed to be paying off. His sword cut through the crisp air like a siren’s shriek, perhaps the last true Polish defender left on the battlefield.

A few Germans had come out of their tanks, and were now shooting at him with their little pistols. But they were no match for Janus. He had been expecting it. Almost as fast as the wind itself, he swept onto those foolish infidels who had forsaken the safety of their tanks, and cut them down. He swept among the tanks, darting, left, right, left, right, cutting and tearing at the exposed men.

But he knew, in his heart of hearts, that the battle had failed. It was not impossible to marshal the remaining forces, to turn them around to victory. The Poles had been defeated here. The Germans were evidently superior. There would be no way for them to win the war. Poland was doomed.

All these thoughts passed through his head as he swayed with his blade. The Germans had all retreated to their tanks now. All he could do was cut in vain at the armoured bodies of the tanks, like a needle pricking at a metal bar.

He charged straight forward at the tank of the commander, screaming in rage, directing all his hatred into the hand clasped firmly around his blade, pointing it straight forward towards the Enemy.

He saw the nozzle of the tank facing him. And he saw the shell coming out of it straight towards him.

Graveyard of Glory

Janus Kolby, a strzelec of the 18^th Uhlan Regiment of the Polish cavalry sat mounted on his horse, surveying the scene ahead of him. Over a thousand German tanks were slowly advancing towards the small village of Krojanty. It was the 1^st of September, and it had been only earlier that day that Adolf Hitler had revealed his plans to annex Poland. Janus’ Poland. He was determined beyond all belief to not let that happen.

The tanks drove on; their constant humming sounding almost like the purr of a cat from the distance Janus was at. It was a comforting sound. He wondered if his family was taking care of his cat at that moment. Little Korczak… He could still remember the day he had first seen him.

It had only been three years ago, when Janus had first turned 15. He had been celebrating his birthday eagerly with his family, yet with a slight tinge of disappointment, for he knew that he would not be seeing them again for a long while. Young Janus had decided, that since Poland had begun to rearm, he would join the army. To serve his country on the field was a dream he had always cherished. Although, in a time of peace like this, the thought of Poland going to war was unimaginable, wasn’t it?

                                                                                                                                                           

Janus grimaced slightly. Only three years ago, it had seemed as though the world would be at peace forever. Locarno, Dawes, the League… did they mean nothing anymore?

He was snapped out of his daydreaming as the Kapitan began barking out orders. The Uhlans were to be ready to charge the moment that the Germans entered the forest around Krojanty. The Kapitan assumed that the trees would hamper the tanks movement, allowing the fluid movement of the Polish cavalry to quickly gain an advantage and demolish their foes. Once the tanks were down, it would be a simple matter to slay the German soldiers. Janus was ready. He wanted nothing more than to stick his blade into the filth who considered the Poles inferior animals. He was fighting for a purpose, he reasoned. And because of this, he would be able to sweep away all in his path. Maybe if he did well enough, he could become a Polish hero! This was Janus’s chance, and he was determined to take it.

He remembered his first few energetic days in the military.

They had been so happy, the young men, training together, living together, being together. They had spent all their time in bliss, knowing that they were being trained to defend Beloved Poland. But even then, none of them had ever wondered. Why were they rearming? Wasn’t the world at peace? What was the purpose?

As Janus followed the Kapitan down the hill, he remembered the sudden jarring moment in his otherwise happy life.

Czechoslovakia.

 That was when it had become clear, wasn’t it? When the Poles knew that Hitler the Demon planned to invade them and slay them all. He had made his move, and had conquered poor Czechoslovakia. And then his sights turned East, towards Poland. Janus stood firm now, resolving to protect his country.

How powerful could the German army be, really? The Polish government had told them that they were not that strong, that they could defend themselves. And of course, there was the ever hopeful air that Britain and France would send in their forces soon. This whole issue would be cleared up in a week at max, Janus thought cheerfully.

The Uhlans advanced further, to a separate edge of the forest, and were just past the fringe when the Kapitan called them to a halt. He turned around, and looked at his beloved 18^th Regiment.

“Soldiers! We go now to war! To blood, death, and glory! This may be the last time I face you as your leader, and as such, I give you my last command. Fight for the beloved Homeland! FOR POLAND! FOR POLAND!”

The chant was quickly taken up among the men, and the booming noise of “For Poland!” resounded throughout the forest. The Germans would have heard them, but at this point it did not matter. They were close enough for the ambush to begin.

“CHAARGE!,” screamed the Kapitan. He turned his horse towards the Germans, and spurred it onward to a gallop, a hero from a fairy tale charging gloriously forward to a decisive victory.

Janus screamed too, and his horse, along with thousands of other horses, charged forward to death and glory. It was time for him to show his worth.

In mere seconds the Uhlans had covered over half the distance between them and the Germans. They rode like mounted angels through the stunning green forest of Krojanty, blurred figures dashing through Nature’s pristine beauty.

Janus looked onward at the tanks as he charged. They had not anticipated the attack, and were not yet ready to fire. The Poles would be able to hit them before the enemy could return any damage.

There was sudden screeching of steel on steel as the front of the wave of Uhlans first broke upon the shore of the German tanks. For a moment, there seemed to be a moment of doubt, would the Uhlans manage to penetrate, or not?  It was all far too intense for Janus, who had not yet reached the enemy.

But his doubt was all for nothing, as the Uhlan’s effortlessly  broke through the front line of tanks, weaving in and out, their blades flurrying like mad demons swinging their talons.

And then it was Janus’ turn! He reached the enemy tanks, and swung his sword, striking one of them. There was a sharp screeching noise, but he had done almost no damage! The tank was barely harmed! Janus’ brow furrowed in dismay, and he charged onwards, striking wildly at other tanks, but to no avail. It was hopeless! They were impenetrable!

All around him, it seemed as though the Poles had come to the same conclusion. What would they do? Just how powerful were these tanks? Was it even conceivable that the ambush would fail and end in retreat?

And then the first shell was fired. A tank at the rear, which had finally gotten ready, fired,  the tip of its nozzle resounding with the sound of an explosion. Janus and the Poles collectively held their breath. And then the shell hit a group of Uhlans, exploding on contact. The sudden silence was rent by the screams of agony of the Poles on fire, the crazed neighing of their horses, the sound of bodies falling to the ground.

The Kapitan looked to his forces, and screamed, “Run! Retreat! Save yours-!”, but he was cut off as more and more shells were fired by the tanks.

Janus saw one fly through the air, almost gracefully, towards the Kapitan. The Kapitan looked towards his forces at the just before it reached him, and smiled at them. It was a kind, fatherly smile. But then, he was gone. Gone in an explosion of fire and smoke, a terrifying pandemonium of limbs and shrapnel.

Suddenly, the Uhlans’ glory was not all that was at stake here. Their very lives were in great peril. Janus tried to take command of the men near him, ushering them away from the huddle in the middle of the tanks, trying to carry out the Kapitan’s last wish. But even as they tried to flee, the tanks brought them down. They were too deep in! Their very battle plan was turning out to be the cause for their defeat.

Janus gave up trying to save his comrades, and focused on trying to attack the tanks. He cared not for his life, only for his dear land. Already, the Germans had tainted Her. Tainted Her by sowing Her fields with the blood of Her own children! Where there had only minutes ago been a peaceful forest there was now devastation, a wildfire, a graveyard to be.

Janus had gambled on the fact that if he was near enough to attack a tank, then the others would not dare to fire at him, in fear of damaging their ally. So far it seemed to be paying off. His sword cut through the crisp air like a siren’s shriek, perhaps the last true Polish defender left on the battlefield.

A few Germans had come out of their tanks, and were now shooting at him with their little pistols. But they were no match for Janus. He had been expecting it. Almost as fast as the wind itself, he swept onto those foolish infidels who had forsaken the safety of their tanks, and cut them down. He swept among the tanks, darting, left, right, left, right, cutting and tearing at the exposed men.

But he knew, in his heart of hearts, that the battle had failed. It was not impossible to marshal the remaining forces, to turn them around to victory. The Poles had been defeated here. The Germans were evidently superior. There would be no way for them to win the war. Poland was doomed.

All these thoughts passed through his head as he swayed with his blade. The Germans had all retreated to their tanks now. All he could do was cut in vain at the armoured bodies of the tanks, like a needle pricking at a metal bar.

He charged straight forward at the tank of the commander, screaming in rage, directing all his hatred into the hand clasped firmly around his blade, pointing it straight forward towards the enemy.

He saw the nozzle of the tank facing him. And he saw the shell coming out of it straight towards him.

Tarrow

Victor Salve had always had a slight leaning towards the twisted, darker side of life.  He understood that chaos and destruction were the true essence of life, and embraced this. For this, and a multitude of other reasons, he was shunned by the global community at large. People, upon meeting him, would almost instinctively dislike him. It would be a typical case of an average person detesting a genius. People simply couldn’t bear to see someone better than them.

His whole life was now wrapped around one idea: To make contact with Tarrow. Not that he would ever tell anybody. They would accuse him of being a fool, a madman. Why would anyone ever choose to believe that Tarrow was real? They would tell him to stop reading his dark, depressing books, and move on to become more involved in the positive side of life.

But Victor knew. She was real. She was a demon. And She had been watching him. From a very young age, little Victor had a nagging feeling, a constant suspicion, that he was being watched. He had initially ignored it, but as time passed, it grew. It had put a constant darkness on him, and had isolated him from his fellow beings. What was it? That question had bothered him for what had seemed like eternity, when, one day, the answer came.

Victor had given in. Life was nothing more than hell on earth. What was it that the priests were always preaching about? A place called Heaven? He laughed to himself at the absurdity of the thought of a monster like him ever being permitted entry.

He reached a trembling hand out towards his purchase. Opium. Victor was ready to throw away any hope he had of living a better life for a few moments of happiness with some magic powder. Even he could see it. But he could not stop it. Nobody could, now. He clasped the packet forcefully, and brought it to his face. But then he became aware. It was there. It was watching him. Except it was closer than it had ever been to him, now.  He could sense, somehow, that the presence was female. He couldn’t see it, or smell it, or hear it, only feel it. And it was rejoicing. Rejoicing with a vitality that struck icy daggers into Victor’s heart.  And suddenly, he knew what She was called. Her name was Tarrow, of this he was certain. As to what she was? Victor was no clearer. But he knew now that under no circumstances would he do what She wanted him to. And in the cusps of determination, he threw away the opium, letting the little packet roll down the alley. Almost at once, an aura of rage emanated from Her. She had been so close!

The experience had haunted Victor for ages, up to the point where he had now finally made it possible to make contact with Her again. He had practiced the art of lucid dreaming for ages, and was ready to enter his own mind to see what entity had been stalking his life for so long.

It was late night when Victor walked into the room he had had prepared. It was completely blank, with white walls, a white floor, a white ceiling, and even white door. Inside it, one couldn’t even be sure that they were still in a house. The room was singularly designed to give the impression of a lack of reality.

Victor went to the centre of the room, and sat down in a cross legged pose. It was time to begin. He had brought a candlestand with him, and set it up in front of him. He lit the candles, and the sweet smell of incense wafted through the room. Victor looked around the room once, then shut his eyes, and presently began to take deep breaths. He was meditating, allowing his mind to relax and wander, to find what it was that had plagued him.

He became aware of a disconcerting feeling, as though somebody else was in the room with him. He had had the impression of being watched before, but this was on a new scale altogether. He opened his eyes with all the force he could muster, and at the moment of impact he looked straight ahead.

He could see an old fireplace, and next to it an old wooden rocking chair. As his eyes travelled up the base of the chair he saw-

White. All white. He had glimpsed something else, but it was back to what it had been. There was something different though. A barrier had been crossed. He was aware now that it could happen agai-


-he saw an ancient being, a woman, rotting and sagging on the chair. She leered at him through sunken eyes, and he was aware of Her power, Her potential-

-it was vivid, inexplicable. The flashes kept coming and breaking off as Victor tried to decipher them. He realized, with a growing horror, that he had just seen the face of Tarro-

-Her immense will to destroy all. And she could. The power She wielded was unimaginable. And the frail body masked the burning desire to destroy the worl-

He had glimpsed Her power. She wanted to destroy everything. But why hadn’t She? If the immense power She held was any indicator the world should have been finished a long while ago. What was it that kept her from completing her objective?

Victor began to see flashes upon flashes. A reel seemed to be running in front of him, with millions and millions of incomprehensibly small windows. And in each window, he realized, was a picture! A picture from his life, a memory!

His fourteenth birthday                                                                The day his uncle had passed away

                               The day he had first gone to school

The day his mother had died                                                The day he had graduated

In each picture, he noted, there was something similar, besides him. Some-

Victor began to feel a pain in his head, and stood up, clasping it in his hands and ducking down-

-something familiar. And then, with shock, he realized what it was. She had been watching him. She had been following him in this realm of hers. In Her own room. For all his long, pitiful, life. But why?

The pain shrieked in his head as it escalated. It felt as though an angry madman was stabbing him, again, and again, and again. He wanted nothing more than for it to stop, for sweet release from the agony. He ran to the wall and bashed his head against it constantly, trying to soothe the burning agony.

The reel disappeared, and he looked directly into Her eyes. She gave him a sunken grin, then, in front of his very eyes, changed. She was all at once blessed with the graceful beauty of youth, and Her appearance changed to see fit. She ecstatically threw Her pale hands to the sky in joy, and then She moved.

She leapt from her chair into the air, and pounced at Victor, trying to hurt him, to kill him-

He was doing his best, but She was winning. The pain in his head grew and grew until it felt as though the whole world was burning in it.

He flailed wildly and in vain tried to ward Her off. She was gouging thousands of cuts in him with Her swaying hands, tearing him to shreds before his very eyes.

HE UNDERSTOOD! If he died now, then Tarrow would be free. She would be released from this dimension, this alternate room in which She was bound, and would be free to wreak Her havoc. With this in mind, Victor turned around, and ran to the opposite wall. He flailed around in vain for the door, trying to seek escape from what had once been his haven.

She bit him, slashed him, hurt him-

WHERE WAS IT!? His hands fumbled over something, could it be the knob?-

She gouged out his eyes, and his vision was lost to him, and he only heard. And what he heard terrified him.

The pain reached heights he had not thought possible, and he was momentarily incapacitated. But he struggled onwards, and wrenched open the door.

“NO!”, She screamed. He had the impression of her looking at him with hatred, and felt the hands she slashed him with turn into masses of wrinkles. He heard her flee and return to where she had once been.

As Victor shut the door, he could swear that he heard the sound of a rocking chair.

Suicide Forest

June 6, 2006, Aokigahara Forest, Japan

A tall man walked among the emerald-green leaves of Aokigahara Forest. He had long since strayed off the path intended for tourists.  Not that the path reached so deep into the heart of the forest anyway.  The man was now so deep that the horizon was dominated by the massive peak of the great Mount Fuji, which Aokigahara was at the base of. He walked as though he were troubled, uneasily moving deeper into the forest. He seemed to be trying to struggle with his own demons. Of course, if the legends were to be believed, there was no shortage of demons in Aokigahara.

His name was Vladimir, and he was a tall Russian man, of around 30 years of age. His normally handsome face was ravaged by the presence of the despondent, powerful shadow within him, which he had unwittingly nurtured ever since his last visit to the forest. When had it been, anyways? For Vladimir, all time had stopped then.

He had to go deeper.

He wasn’t anywhere near close enough. Andrei was deeper in. Andrei was waiting for him.

Vladimir stared ahead intently as he marched, his eyes burning holes through the leafy green of the forest. He was so focused on what was ahead of him that he neglected to pay attention to anything else, and as a result of that, he tripped on a branch, and fell to the ground. Almost immediately he tried to lift himself up, but was unable to. He cursed furiously at the branch. He knew what the problem was, but refused to admit it to himself. He had been walking desperately for three days, and was tired enough to drop dead.

Fuming to himself, Vlad pulled himself on to his back and lay down. He was disturbed by this delay he was making to rest. He had to see Andrei. As he lay there, his mind wandered off into the oblivion of dreams, and he saw again the chain of events which had led him here.

June 4, 2003, Outskirts of Aokigahara Forest

Vladimir looked at his twin brother Andrei with concern. He still could not quite understand why Andrei had wanted to come here. Truth be told, however, none of Andrei’s actions in the past year had been much the same as they had used to be. Ever since their mother’s murder, Andrei had changed. For the whole year, Vlad had not been able to shake off the feeling that Andrei was only an empty husk, a shell, with his real brother gone, departed, far away with his mother.

Andrei had had a hard year. First his mother, whom he had been extremely close to, had been killed by a psychotic maniac. Then, the financial troubles had begun. Vlad and Andrei simply were not able to raise enough money to care for themselves and their aged father. Andrei had seemed to take this as some sort of personal failure, and had blamed himself greatly for it, despite all the times Vlad tried to convince him otherwise.

But suddenly, about a month ago, Andrei had changed. He had seemed to become the man he used to be once more. Or at the very least, he was similar to what he used to be. He had the vitality of life in him once again. And then he had invited Vladimir to come on a camping trip with him. Vlad had gladly accepted, happy that his brother was taking an interest in life again.

And here they were now, just inside Aokigahara forest. Why here, of all places? It was not a very friendly forest. The locals claimed that it was haunted by demons which preyed on one’s mind and led them to suicide. Of course, this wasn’t true. This was just a place where many people felt it fit to end their miserable existences. Vlad couldn’t quite see why. After all, it was just a forest, albeit a very calm and pristine one. Why would someone want to be picky about where they killed themselves? It was a concept Vladimir simply couldn’t wrap his mind around.

Over the next two days, Vladimir and Andrei trekked deeper and deeper, until they reached a clearing in the heart of the forest. Vlad was about to begin setting up camp, when his brother stopped him.

Andrei spoke, “Wait, Vladimir.”

Vlad turned around, and asked, “What?”

“I don’t suppose you know where we are, nor why we’re here, do you?”

Vlad looked curiously at his brother, and spoke, “We’re in the Aokigahara Forest on a camping trip, aren’t we?”

Andrei looked coolly at Vlad, “You know very well that’s not why we’re here. You’ve been casting aside glances at me throughout this expedition, wondering what I’m up to. Well, I’ll tell you.” He paced in the clearing for a moment, before looking up and clearing his throat. “Vladimir, we’re in a very special place right now. This- this clearing we’re in. Over four hundred people have taken their lives on this spot.”

“Andrei…no. Please don’t tell me that-“

“-Sorry, Vlad. But I’ve had enough. I hope you won’t think badly of me. Maybe, one day, you’ll understand. But I hope to God that day never comes.” Andrei looked at his brother one last time, and then pulled out the hunting knife from his pack. Vlad just stood there, watching, horrified, and frozen to the spot.

Andrei put the knife to his own throat, and with a slightly tremulous voice, he spoke his last “Don’t try to understand.”

The Present, June 6, 2006, Aokigahara Forest, Japan

Vlad ran furiously forward. He was almost there. He could see him, see him! beckoning to him. His brother was waiting, just beyond the veil. The thin veil of life. Vlad burst through a bush and emerged into the clearing which he had not set foot in for three years.

I’m here, Andrei! Just wait for me!

Vladimir understood now. He could feel; empathize, with the people who chose to end their lives here. Who wouldn’t want to? To die surrounded by the most pristine surroundings on earth, knowing that you would pass away in the midst of silent life. It was the greatest death imaginable, wasn’t it? And Vladimir was ready. He finally knew why his brother had chosen to do what he had done.

We’re closer than we’ve ever been before, aren’t we?

Vlad moved forward, to the centre of the clearing. His foot scraped on something, a piece of bone sticking out from under the ground. He got to his knees, and furiously began to dig with his hands, until gradually; he unearthed the remains of his brother.

Not much longer now!

Vladimir reached forward, and took the knife from the skeleton’s hands. He stood up, and cast one last look around him. A panoramic scene of trees and bushes surrounded him, and he felt at peace.

He put the knife to his throat, and shut his eyes. It was time. Deftly, he drew it across his bulging vein, eager to be free of his physical bonds, eager to be with his brother once more.

I’m coming!

As the red nectar seeped out of his neck, he could almost see his brother in his mind’s eye. He spoke to him.

Andrei, I’m here!

Andrei looked at him, and screamed;

NO! VLADIMIR, DON’T! GO BACK!

Vlad’s eyes began to lose focus, and he began to fall, his last thoughts being those of confusion and sorrow. Perhaps it was never meant to be. As he fell, he was suddenly aware.  

Omniscient.

He felt all the people who had passed here before him, and he empathized with one and all.

At last, Vlad landed, right into the arms of his waiting brother.

Aokigahara was far from sated though, and like a hungry god demanding sacrifice, it lay in wait for its next meal.

Depression

Depression craves further depression.
Satisfaction would be its end,
It brings about only constant recession,
'Till one goes over the bend

A beast of sorts which cannot be tamed,
It strolls through the paths,
Until at last, we will be maimed
And left shall be naught but ghasts

Thoughts without colour mark its path,
Each an unhappy ending on its own,
Never shall we truly escape their wrath,
Lest we venture outside remedies known,

Again and again, the idea manifests
Itself in possibilities uncountable,
And finally, it begins to rest
Becoming infinite, insurmountable

The last step to take seems plain,
‘Tis only a thread of life away,
We will become our own bane,
To finally escape the endless grey

Someone Else's Fault

Luther followed his guide, Mitei, down through the lush, green, gardens of Hiroshima, eager to reach the Dome.

‘We almost there yet?’

‘Almost, Sir.’

Luther scrutinized his rather short guard.  His face had a peculiar expression on it, but that was natural, after all, considering where they were going. Each and every Japanese person who had been there had instantly felt the gravity of the sight. If they did not feel it, then they could not possibly be normal.  Luther was inclined to sympathize with these people. They hadn’t deserved it.

Mitei stopped, and with a curious tremour in his voice, he spoke.

‘…We’re here, Sir. ..I hope you enjoy your visit…to the Hiroshima Atomic Bomb Dome’

Luther nodded at Mitei, and then surveyed the majesty of the situation. What he saw seemed to be so little. An old, partially destroyed house, with a large dome on its mostly annihilated upper floor. It really wasn’t anything special. But then, all of a sudden, the history of the area seemed to overwhelm him.

This is where it happened!...

It entranced and terrified him simultaneously. After all, he had something to be proud of. It had been HIS country which had had the power to do this. But then, his conscience seemed to whisper to him, had it really been necessary?

As Luther stared at the large, mournful looking white dome which jutted out unceremoniously from among the rubble of the house, he was himself unaware that he was being watched. His sheer American-ness was extremely noticeable. That arrogant stride, the jaws working on chewing some gum, the horn-rimmed spectacles, the nasal voice with which he spoke to his guide.

Mitei saw it though. It had been wrong of Luther to come. He didn't fit in here; he was an outsider, and an American to boot. To top it all off, it was that day of the year again. The day when thousands of Japanese people would congregate to the Dome to see, once again, the site where their families had been ripped apart.  It was the anniversary. The Japanese people’s emotions were running high. Logic would not be guiding them right now.

Only the raging torrent of dark flame under their flesh.

Mitei saw it all. He saw the first rock fly at Luther and leave a gash on his forehead. He saw the crowd surge together as if in a wave, towards the hated American. He saw the weaker people being trampled in the desire to hurt the Enemy. He saw a child’s hand stick out of the crowd as his mother was swept away from him.

Mitei saw all this, but did nothing. He stood and observed, the silent watcher in the day, unable to bring himself to join the carnage, but at the same time unable to find any desire to help, to forgive.

At last, he turned, and walked away.

Them

She sat down at the piano, staring at it, wondering if she dared to attempt to play it again. The last time had been so long ago…

She decided that perhaps, it was time to overcome her fears, and hesitantly placed her fingers on the time-worn keys. She played a note, and then another and the music was heaven to her ears.  It had been too long since she had done this…

She then picked up her speed, and began playing the piano as she had played it long ago, in her childhood, familiar and comforting memories rising to her mind as she did.

They had all loved her playing. They would always sit down and watch her fingers dance over the aged keys. For nearly six years they had been content to let her play on her own.  But then…

Something had gone wrong, before, she remembered. And suddenly the memories weren’t warm anymore.

They were not satisfied by her playing any longer. It irked them. The tunes she played simply did not content them. From behind the dark veil, they would watch her and shake their head in disappointment. And then, they had taken matters into their own hands. They had swooped on her as she played for her sick brother, confined to his bed. They had changed her comforting lullabies, turning them into an infernal wail of the condemned. They had consumed her, as they had consumed her grandmother before her, and she had done wrong.

She missed her brother…

‘Murderer’, they had called her.

But, it seemed as though she was all right now. Nothing was happening as she played. The tune of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons flooded the dark attic room, and she was at peace. But then she saw them. They were still there.

 Watching her.  Vibes of resentment darkening their demeanour every moment.

And then-

A pure sound-

But then a pause-

And the resumption of music-

But not good -

Infernal tunes raged through the room, and her fingers moved without her consent.

She saw, through the window, the shade of her brother. Was he smiling? She couldn’t quite tell.

A little closer…

She went to the window and opened it, but she still wasn’t close enough. She leaned forward, and the music in her head became an overwhelming crescendo of despair.

Falling…lights everywhere…They were watching…

And then-

Darkness.

The Life and Death of Polly the Cow.

Oh dear Lord!...

To Alexander, Earl of Durnenshire, it seemed as though his day could not possible get any worse. As he sat there the great hall of Durnen Castle, watching the sweepers deal with the disturbing dead cow on the floor, he glumly noticed that everything had gone wrong for him that day. And in the most dramatic manner possible, too.

Why did it HAVE to be today?  It really had been due to the extreme convergence of probability that this day had gone like this. He once again began to reminisce.

The day had started very well. Alexander and his loyal butler Tibbles had been preparing Durnen Castle for the King’s welcoming party. They had put painstaking work into making sure that every detail was perfect. Massive purple curtains hung from the massive curved windows. Large, opulent red carpets were laid out in all the corridors and halls, adding a rather splendid effect to the whole thing. But Alexander and Tibbles wanted perfection! No floor could be shiny enough, no rug straight enough! But eventually, even Alexander was satisfied with the majority of the preparations, and decided to go the kitchens to check on the progress of the roast beef.

In retrospect, this was where it had started to go wrong. In that dramatic way which was mentioned earlier.

Alexander, First of the King’s Men, Earl of Durnenshire, Self-Appointed Vizier of Justice, Knight of Truth, entered the kitchens to see what could be described as no less than a battle. The scene was a strange one. Ten or more cooks well armed with cleavers and rolling pins were advancing on a vaguely familiar cow. Alexander seemed to remember purchasing it for the dinner. It seemed that the cow was a princess, however, because one lone ebony skinned chef was championing for her. And if Alexander had thought that the previous cooks were well armed, it was nothing compared to this dark skinned hero, with his two massive butchering knives.

Upon seeing their Earl enter the room, the chefs suddenly veered away from what had promised to be an exciting, if rather dangerous performance, and decided to do what employees did best. Complain.

‘M’lord, this fool won’t let go of that dratted cow. Says meat is murder or summing of the sort.’

‘Earl, this man is insane! We were just going to butcher old Polly when ‘e jumps in front of ‘er and starts ‘ollering about animal’s rights. Mad, isn’t it?’

‘Sir, when I signed up to be a chef, I was fairly sure that my ethics would be accounted for, and you can understand that me, with my religion being what it is, wouldn’t want to see murder take place in front of my eyes, can’t you?’

Noise, noise, noise!

Alexander wanted to scream at them all, but he knew that the hardest ego to mend was a chef’s, and considering that there were seven French chefs here, he decided that it would be better for the sake of the roast beef if he simply kept quiet.

He did, however, promptly dismiss his errant servant, who spluttered indignantly, but finally acquiesced to leave, with the fair maiden Polly making distressed noises as her last lifeline left.

Alexander then told the chefs to get on with it, and decided to go to re-check the status of the dining hall. As he walking in through the large domed archway, he noted happily that nothing in particular seemed to be awry there. Carpets on the floor, curtains in front of the windows, orchestra in its proper place- Wait, was someone talking to the orchestra?

Alexander frowned and went up to the orchestra to be greeted by a grim sight. The pious chef had just been talking to them, and on seeing Alexander, had run away. And if the grim faces of the band were anything to judge by, he hadn't been saying anything positive.

All of the orchestra started speaking to Alexander at once, and through the rather profane jumble of words, he managed to glean some information. The orchestra, consisting mainly of those revolutionary youths who were fashionable with the younger generation, thought of Alexander’s dismissal of the errant chef as a racial prejudice, and said right there and then that they did not intend to play for elitist snobs.

Alexander watched in despair as the orchestra packed up and left, and would probably have thrown a tantrum had the royal fanfare not just sounded. The King had arrived.

After exchanging some pleasantries, the King entered the hall and made small talk with Alexander. He had noticed, he said, that there was no musical performance, such as was custom to play at these events? Not that he minded, of course, Oh No, he was just curious. Alexander meekly replied that it was simply so hard to hire good orchestras in this day and age, and he had decided that no orchestra was better than a bad orchestra.

At that moment, there was suddenly a loud *CRASH* followed by an equally loud *SNAP* as the door to the kitchen broke, and Polly the cow, taking ‘charge’ of her own life, ran out into the hall, and roared. Alexander simply stood there, looking helpless, and then turned to the wake of the cow’s destruction. Behind the rubble of the broken door he could see a grinning dark face. It seemed that he had been wrong to make an enemy of this person, but it was too late to take it back now.

There was complete pandemonium in the hall. The appearance of this cow had scared everyone out of their minds, and they were at their wit’s ends.

The previously mentioned well armed culinary experts now also dashed into the hall, and one bright little man decided that it would be a good idea to take the initiative, and he brought his cleaver down on Polly then and there. Polly let out a loud cry of distress, and then fell down dead on the floor. A sudden hush fell on everyone in the hall. The chefs were silent, the King was silent, the orchestra (who had been masquerading as potted plants) were quiet, and even Tibbles was quiet.

Then they all heard a sound. A cow-like sound. Not the pleasant moo which people read about, but more like the actual MYEAAARGGHHHHH that cows are prone to make. There was a massive shattering noise and one of the curtains ripped as a massive bull charged into the hall, and MYEARGH’d once more. It looked like they were in trouble. It seemed that one of Polly’s sweethearts had heard her call of distress and had come to the aid of their (now fallen) princess.

The bull (let’s call him Bob), saw the carcass that had once been the slender, brown-and-white beauty that was Polly, and roared in anguish. Then it slowly turned around and observed the whole room. It seemed to notice the King in particular.

The King and the Bull looked at each other, observing, gauging their enemy’s strength. A certain apprehension entered both combatants’ eyes. But then Bob decided to charge, and gored the King’s arm.

Everybody instantly rushed to the aid of their fallen ruler, and the well trained SWAT ( Still Wondering About Tea) team of chefs leapt into combat with the bull. A great battle took place, but in the end Bob was subdued, despite his valiant attempts to live on. The chefs stepped back, surveying a job well done, and expectantly looked at Alexander.

Alexander now finished his reminiscing to see that their eyes were still on him, and they looked hopeful. Oh dear, he thought. Surely, surely they weren’t expecting a raise?

Ducks

This, my friends, is an essay about ducks. Yes, those yellow, quacking, feathered menaces of the ponds. I’m sure we all know what I’m referring to. Everybody has seen them. And those that haven’t have seen their menacing antics on hit propaganda show, Tom and Jerry.

People nowadays are surprisingly misguided. They show unnatural fears of completely nice creatures, such as crocodiles, or lions.  These animals have completely respectable kill statistics, of generally 5-20 a year in the civilized areas of the world.

What, then, you might rightly as, are the statistics of DEATH-BY-DUCK?(Henceforth referred to in this document as DBD.) The answer is that there are none. You might now outrageously try to defend the aforementioned yellow furies for lack of evidence against them. BUT DON’T YOU SEE!? This very lack of evidence is what tells against them! THEY ARE TAKING OVER THE INTERNET AND HAVE REMOVED ALL DBD STATISTICS!

Sorry for my outburst there, I sometimes lose my cool when discussing these predators. D’you know, there are people on this earth who are intelligent enough to understand that these ducks are actually yellow-coated raptors? Yes, yes there are. And the rest of the world stomps on them. They tell them that they’re crazy, that they’re seeing ducks everywhere. Anatidaephobes, they call us. It is the universal acknowledgement that the ducks are winning. If the human race does not understand that their very existence is threatened, then how will they go to war?

Still, our current position in the war isn’t as bad as it was circa 3000 years ago. Back then, the ducks had an even greater master of propaganda. He went by the name ‘Zeus’. He passed himself off as an extremely gifted human, albeit one with excessive growth of facial hair. He realized that the humans had begun to revere him, and thus began one of the most deluded periods in human history.

They were known as THE DUCK (There is a common misconception that this is meant to be pronounced as ‘Dark’, but it is untrue) AGES. This is a time during which Duck Sculpture first began. Statuettes of ducks dated over 2000 years old have been recovered. The intellectuals of this earth believe that this is when the ducks first began to assault the aforementioned DBD records, and so took their first step towards establishing rule on earth.

I must leave you all now, for I fear that they are near. I shall end with the usual Anti-Duck poem, but I would also like to remind humankind of their duty to their race. Please, friends, if you hear the dreaded ‘QUACK’ once more, barricade yourself in your house, and don’t come out, lest you add to the secret DBD records.

Signing off,

T

‘Dear friend, if you do hear a quack,

Run, go hide in a shack,

For truly, of gifted humans, we have a lack,

And don’t want another body-sack

Dear friend, when you see flashes of yellow

Waving as though they were Jell-O

Be prepared for the war-like bellow

Show thyself to be a careful fellow

Dear friend, when into open combat with the winged fury, you come

Do not let your senses grow numb

And as a general rule of thumb,

Please, try not to be dumb.

The Sorting Hat's Last Song ( Post - Apocalyptic)

SORTING HAT’S SONG ( Written in an imagined time period where Hogwarts is no more)

Many hundreds of years ago,

When I was rather new,

The four founders for the first time met,

And made a school out of the blue.

So Hogwarts then came to be,

‘Twas a school of great reputation

And children would come to fill their little heads,

Generation after generation

Into four houses I would then divide them,

Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff

There firm friends would be made,

Who’d make sure life was never tough

Gryffindor chose those brave at heart,

Hufflepuff those who worked hard,

Ravenclaw preferred the smart,

And to the cunning, Slytherin opened his yard

I do not know why I still mourn

Those who are dead and gone

After all, my role is finished,

So this shall be the end of my last song

Dear Child, do not be afraid...

This is a SlenderMan story. It probably won't make much sense to you unless you've heard of him, so Google it before reading, okay?

It also incorporates certain elements of the horror game Slender, such as the fuzzy vision and static sounds.



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
One winter evening, in a lush countryside far away from the troubles of the world, two children, a boy and a girl were playing.

The girl, Jane, felt very annoyed at the moment. She had been playing a simply game of Tag with her brother, Peter, and for what felt like an eternity, she had been the dreaded 'It'.

Her brother flew past her on his winged feet once more, and she fell on the ground with a resounding *thump*, and a cry of indignation. She looked around for a moment, but her brother had disappeared again, no doubt hiding behind a rock or a tree.
Anyone passing the field at this time would have seen a young girl of seven or eight years, wearing expensive clothes, sulking in the middle of an abandoned countryside with nobody else in sight.

A normal, kind, well-meaning person would have asked her if she was lost and needed help getting back home. A particularly keen-eyed person would have noticed certain striking similarities between the girl and the Lord Braden.

The stranger who had just emerged from the spindly forest behind young Jane, however, was neither keen-eyed nor was he kind. Young Peter saw him from his hiding place behind a rather large boulder, and wondered who he was. Certainly the man was not normal. Perhaps a small description of the man is in order.

He was evidently male. He was very tall, and very thin, and could almost be confused with the spindly trees behind him. A sudden rush of wind blew towards Peter at that moment, and as it caressed his hair, he could almost swear that he had heard it speak to him, and say 'Slender', in its rustling voice.

The man seemed to have a curious affinity for the colour black. He had on a long, black suit. He wore a large, black, hat which he had tipped forward to cover his forehead, and large sunglasses which concealed much of his upper face. The rest of his face was hidden by a black overcoat which he had pulled up to its extent.

However, as he walked, his overcoat fell slightly, and Peter gasped in horror as he beheld the man's face. Where there should have been a nose and a mouth, there was only an undulating expanse of blank, white skin. The stranger got closer to Peter's sister, and she finally became aware of his presence.

Peter began to cautiously make his way towards Jane, ready to help her if anything happened. The man bent down to his sister's ear, and it seemed as though he was saying something. As he spoke, Jane's eyes widened in fear, and she slowly stood up and took the man's hand. She had been frightened into submission.

Peter decided that the man meant to kidnap his sister, and he charged at the man, keeping his eyes trained on that sallow, ghostly face. He was energized by the bravado that only young children have, before the knowledge that comes with maturity tempers them and makes them less headstrong.

As he ran, something strange seemed to happen to Peter. His vision grew fuzzy, and he could hear static sounds in his head. The man's face kept appearing in front of his eyes, even though he was still several yards away.  The stranger's joints seemed to be contorting at strange angles to Peter, and he quickly shut his eyes. He was scared, scared in that primal way that all humans are. This fear of the man was as basic as fear of the dark, of death, of bad things. It was as though his very mentality was scared of this strange man, for reasons that Peter did not understand. Even with his eyes shut the face kept appearing in front of him. Peter wanted to scream but he couldn't, he was too choked up with fear. He wanted to run, he wanted to hide, but it was all TOO HARD!

Then, with a sudden resolve, the child opened his eyes wide, if only to try to help his sister.
But he saw the man, and Jane, almost a mile away, walking back into the forest from which the slender man had come.

STORYTIME EP.2

((Again, this is all comedy and is not to be taken seriously))


The awesome young adult named T had just left a land known as India, where many of the less fortunate had never been to before. (Sucks to be you, Columbus)

Strangely enough, the public melancholy of departure radiated by his traveling fellows also pierced our favourite genius' normal (sorry, awesome) sangfroid and threw him into emotional chaos.

This mental turmoil, when coupled with the copious amount of unhealthy food our hero had consumed while in that mystical land, could lead to only one thing. Sickness.

And indeed, sickness did come. With the force of a great hurricane, the flu germs landed on the craggy shores that were to become the battlefield for T's health. A great war then ranged, lasting for almost a whole day, during which T wasn't entirely sure whether he was coming down with the flu or not.

However, by the end of the day, the victor was clear. The many trenches which had previously been manned by T's noble white-blooded soldiers were now littered with their drained corpses. The Germ-an artillery had broken the last line of defense, and their disease fully penetrated T's body.

Here now is the last stanza of the epic poem 'The Flu has Won'


"The war is lost
The Germ-ans have invaded
And in our white blood bathed
So begins the second Holocaust"

With these sombre words, STORYTIME Ep.2 will now conclude.

STORYTIME EP.1

AUTHOR'S NOTE: To make it clear, this story is not meant to be taken seriously, and is written for comedic purposes


Once upon a time there was a completely awesome teenager named T (The name has been hidden in the interest of maintaining anonymity).

Now, T here was one of those rare few awesome geniuses of the 21st century, and would rub it in everyone's face at every given opportunity. As could be expected, this meant that T didn't make a lot of new friends.

However, this didn't really seem to matter to him, and he was content with the few he had, as awesome people, must always learn to adapt.

T had a host of unusual idiosyncrasies. He was constantly blacking out in the middle of long talks, his mind not content with the un-awesomeness of the mundane world he lived in, teleporting his mental self to worlds like Middle-Earth, where T truly felt he belonged. T also constantly greeted his friends to acknowledge their good fortune in having become his friends. It was annoying sometimes, but his friends soon learned to live with it.

T once wrote a poem about himself. It runs like,

"From amidst a world of folly
Emerges a boy looking jolly
Genius of the new world is he
His name? It's simply T"


With those awesome and inspirational words left to guide you on your path, this session of STORYTIME will now conclude.

Last Struggle of the Grey

I wrote this poem about 2-3 years back, after re-reading Lord of The Rings for the umpteenth time.
I was a bit younger then, so please forgive the standard of the poem.

(( Just to clarify, this poem is about the duel between Gandalf and the Balrog in the Mines of Moria))


With Istari grace did he fight
Striving to defend what was right

The Balrog of Morgoth was his foe
Unholy fire, could it throw

Durin's Bane was its name
Durin the Deathleass, it had slain

With whip, fire, and blade it fought
But 'twas all to be for naught

The Flames of Anor struck him down
And into the darkness it did drown

It looked as though the victor was clear,
But the Grey wizard's end too, was near

The Balrog's whip shot out for the keep,
Drums, drums in the deep

A Travel Poem

This is a poem which I wrote while travelling from India to Pakistan in a bus.

Ahead, the ruddy red of the mountain rises

With the road cutting ever through,

All the twists, turns, and surprises,

'Till it reaches the endless blue

(This Stanza was written as we were passing some fields and a river)

Clouds of all sizes grace the sky

While the greenest of grass billows through the meadows

Outside, the farmers thresh their rye,

As the wind is wending through the willows  

Time has passed, sunlight begins to die

The meadows darken, and on them shadow falls

The murders of crows start to fly

And the farmers retreat to their halls

Awakening 

                                                Revised Edition

"It’s the Crab!-“

Thus were the first thoughts that I can remember thinking. I didn’t know why, they just were so. After thinking them, there is a great gap in my memory, up to the point where I woke up on a strange island. The sun was high in the sky so I could see the area around me very well. It was a barren place with crackly red soil, rather how I had always imagined the planet Mars.

  I was at first content to just sit there and do nothing, but eventually I felt hungry and began to search for food around me. I found some strange sort of packed meal underneath a hillock a few miles in the east and opened it to find food. The thought “rations” passed through my mind. The food was somehow familiar to me, and so was, come to think of it, the whole area around me. Oddly familiar.

I sat down and taxed my memory to its utmost extent, and a glimmer of recognition came in reach. Excitedly, I tried to put all my focus on figuring out what I know about the place. I might have guessed given enough time, but sadly, this was not to be.

A troop of strange crab-like creatures was approaching from the east, and they, too, seemed familiar. Could they be the creatures that my first memories were about?

Intrigued by the creatures, I began to study them thoroughly. They had the bodies and legs of crabs, and were practically crabs, except for some minor differences. They were about as large as me, they moved as though they were swimming, and they had their eyes dangling in front of them on antennae-like structures. 

The creatures closed in, and formed a circle around me. Then one of them stared directly into my eyes. I felt jolted, as though there was some sort of electric contact between us. I felt like I had been reduced to a baby again, and I wanted to run up and hug those eyes, those adorable plastic looking eyes. They looked just like the eyes of little stuffed toys.  I rushed towards them, intending to hug them, when I tripped on a rock, and everything went black.

It was frightening for me beyond all imagination. I was alone and in the dark. Something was wrong. WRONG! Flashes of white began to penetrate the sheet of black. Along with them, snatches of a conversation came to me.

“Looks like they got him bad, poor chap. I hear that they have some sort of new way of fighting by using some weird sort of dangly sticks.”

Were they talking about me? I tried to move, but the moment I did, the black went away and I found myself in a strange new place. I was on top of a completely frozen ocean. The scene would have been natural, had there not been blood splattered all over the ice. I saw a body nearby, and moved over to look at it. It was mine, and it seemed to be only just alive. Frightened by the other me, I ran the other way.

I found a hole in the ice, with a fishing rod next to it. I felt hungry, so I attempted to fish with it, although there was no bait. Regardless of that fact, however, a big pile of fish steadily rose up behind me. I lowered the rod into the pool to fish again, and felt something bite. I pulled it up to take the fish. Another one of the crab monsters from before had bitten on the rod and had leaped at me!

I was in the dark once more. Again came the flashes of light, I wished they would stop, it hurt my eyes.  It was very inconsiderate of whoever was doing it. Then I heard more conversation.

“They just leapt at him out of the water and ripped at his face, must’ve been horrible. Hey, look, he’s moving!”

Again I awoke in unfamiliar surroundings. This time the area was all red. There was no ground, no ceiling, and no walls. It was just infinite red. I had a sword in my hand, and there were strange constructs made of flesh around me. Enemies. I charged at them and started lopping off their heads, in a sort of ecstatic frenzy. I charged them all down, but this time I was prepared, in case another crab monster appeared. And my preparation was not for naught, as after I chopped off the seventh man’s head, another crab emerged from his neck and lunged at me. However, I didn’t let it get very far. I slashed it in half before it reached me, but even so, I was once more enveloped by the darkness.

The white and the speech returned, clearer than ever before.

“Hold him steady, I think he might just wake up!”

I felt a sharp pain and opened my eyes, although strangely, I didn’t remember shutting them. I was in the white place from the dark. A hospital.

It had all been a crazy nightmare, brought on by my experiences in the war. I remembered a certain enemy soldier, the one who had attacked me in Antartica, ripped my face open, and caused me to go into a coma. There had been a huge crab emblazoned on his leather armour….

For nearly two months, I had been fighting for the things dearest to me- my mind and sanity.