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Persona:
Something a bit fantasy-ish I wrote for class. Figured I'd see folk thought this was crap or not.

At three o’clock in the morning, he walked over to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of ginger ale, and a bottle of gin, and sat at the table with a pen in his hand. This was to be his proudest moment, his greatest work, and the thing that made him famous. Half a bottle of gin later, a chorus of nauseating sounds eminated from the lavatory as Hudson purged the liquid inspiration from his system. He looked down at the notebook he had set before himself hours ago and read from the first page.
 
 Hudson Freeman
  10-14-2015
  Eng. 394

   What can be said about, “Velvet eyes turning against the tide of coming change”?

   That’s it. That’s all he had.  One sentence, that even at this moment in semi-drunken stupor, didn’t make any God damn sense to him. “Did I even write this?” he asked of himself. His self examination was cut short by the loud rapping of a fist against the kitchen window. Hudson turned to look at the interruption, only to see peering yellow eyes in the darkness outside peering back at him. “Oh no, not going to fall for that one. The ol’ cat-waiting-outside trick, eh? It hasn’t worked for any of your other buddies, it won’t work for you.” Hudson said with a smirk. With but a flick of his index finger against the panel of switches beside him, the large UV lights positioned outside his house jolted to life, basking the yellow-eyed figure in searing light for a good 5 seconds, before the being burst in to flame and it’s ashes crumpled on to the ground. “God damn lurks are everywhere these days.”

   A few miles down the road in a run-down bus-stop covered in graffiti and red etches, a portly man in a crumpled and dirty suit and tie collected his breath and thoughts, hands on his knees. His disheveled hair and wide eyes would make any passerby think the man encountered something horrible just moments ago, and would be right to do so. The man sat upright, looked down at his hands and could see the dirt collected under his nails. As he sat, he could hear a thumping not too far away. He bit his lip. An overwhelming urge to find this sound enveloped his mind. He looked towards the noise as it grew louder. It was getting closer and closer. A maddening, repetitious thumping and gushing, like a faucet washing through a drum. Instinct told the man to hide behind a nearby tree. The thumping became louder still, a marching band bass drum in his brain, and he could hardly stand it anymore. Finally the source presented itself, and he lunged at it with anger and lust. The young girl had no idea what hit her, her iPod crashing against the sidewalk, as her head hit the curb. A sharp pain like that of jagged needles pierced her neck, and soon her consciousness washed away, as the dirty pudgy lurk sucked every last drop of her lifeblood. The first meal of a newly spawned vampire is the most important, after all.

   In the morning the newspapers we aflutter with the reports of another dead body found within the city limits of Ballston Spa, and just like the others, it was drained of every last drop of blood. Worst part was, this time it was a local girl, a living (not so much anymore) high school legend in fact. Everybody had thoughts of what that could mean, but few would vocalize them, save the children. They’d shout it from the hilltops (“Lurks! Just like on the screens!”). Though technology and folklore (and more importantly the disproving of folklore) had come a long way from the days of old when “vampires” were everywhere, the legends clung to life. The death of this poor girl just backed those stories up.
   Hudson put down the paper and exited the coffee shop, muffling the chatter of the townspeople inside as the door shut behind him. “Oh sure, NOW they’ll believe in vampires.” He muttered to himself as he walked to his car. The machine whirred to life, sunlight fueling the cells along the sides and roof of the vehicle, as Hudson did a three-point turn and exited the parking lot at the fastest speed the car could muster: a steady 45 miles-per-hour. School was just letting out for the last time this year, and the herds of adolescents were filling the road with their gas-guzzlers and bikes, both motorized and otherwise. Hudson had hoped to avoid this traffic, but it was inevitable. There nothing to do but wait and listen to the radio. Hudson’s eyes drooped, his head nodded, and before long, he found himself in a place very different than his solar-powered car.

Creaking boards echoed in the halls, a sound like that of a cat being stepped on. A few lights that hadn’t been shattered by raging storms of years gone by, or by hooligan children who liked to break things of old flickered in the night, vaguely illuminating the tattered wallpaper and exposed inner framing where holes were present. Further down the corridor, a lonesome stained-glass window glistened, housing a picture of a lone shepherd missing his flock. The cascading moonlight shone just enough through the dead trees outside to show the disappointed stare of the painted shepherd.
   Looking down that lonely hallway, Alex had held her breath and feared to move, less another chorus of creaking boards respond to her unwelcome presence. Exhaling and inhaling sharply, she raised the walkie to her naturally pink lips, biting her lower lip before pressing the TALK button. “Hudson, it’s still clear up here. There’s absolutely nothing in this damn house. I don’t know why I let you drag me to these places.”
   Hudson chimed in through the crackle of the walkie-talkie, “ It’s cause’ I’m adorable. And convincing. And dedicated.”
“ And you’re also apparently not a fan of complete sentences,” Alex smirked.
“Yet another one of my charms.”   
Alex could feel Hudson’s smile through the walkie. He had always felt he had a talent for comforting her in the most awkward and odd of situations. So far, this hadn’t been one of those situations, but Alex (or Alexis as her parents called her) never was comfortable being by herself in these places. All the same, she still did these nightly “adventures” with Hudson, hoping to find something abnormal. That night, they got more than they had bargained for.
   A flash of Alex’s face, the remembrance of her scream, and a splash of blood against the wall repeat over and over and over until Hudson’s head backs in to the seat cushion. The noise of car horns blaring at him has him return his focus to the moment at hand and he resumes driving home.  This has gone on far too long, Hudson thought. He looked in the rear view mirror, seeing a wooden box with a crucifix carved in to the lid resting on the seat, next to a 12-gauge, sawed-off shotgun, a bag of garlic, and empty shotgun casings. Peering back to the road, Hudson could see the sun retreating in the distance. It wouldn’t be long now before they came out again, and he wasn’t going to sit this out. It was time to get involved, not sit comfortably indoors, writing away his feelings and his lost love. It was time to DO something. He was the only one who could.
   The car drove on into the settling dusk, and Hudson was once again reminded of that fateful night. The smell of dead animals rotting in the basement, strung up by goat intestines, in a circle that perverted a sanctimonious healing star of pagan origins, and the two figures who were in the center of that circle: One alive, one dead. The man with the wire-frame glasses spoke in an odd language, and pulled Alex’s lifeless body up by her hair. Before Hudson could scream, the man slit her throat, spraying the wall and Hudson’s shirt with Alex’s blood as the surrounding circle erupted in flame. Through the crackling fire, Hudson could see Alex was no more, but the man had changed. Large inscissors in his front teeth, yellow eyes, and a crumpled forehead overtook his previous facial features, but before Hudson could charge through the flames, the strange man disappeared, leaving nothing but Alex’s burnt and bloody frame behind.

    Hudson pulled in to his gravel drive-way and grimly smiled to himself as he removed his “groceries” from the back seat of his car. “Time to go hunting,” he said aloud he said, as he walked in to his hous

WestEnder67:
Wrote this poem/monologue thing to try and get into a university.

Here I stand, the voyeuristic gaze of the universe upon me. No longer is the mind clear, no longer is the heart still, no longer is the soul intact.
Here I stand, the last man aboard the lonely ship of romance. No band plays on, no young couple embrace, this is the Titanic of my infatuation.
Here I stand, underneath the storms of icy indifference and with the harsh cold surface of rejection beneath my feet.
Here I stand, my one true chance at happiness exploded, like the bombs bursting and rockets streaking above, with that wartime standard fluttering over my drooping head.

Now I only lay still; a spiritless corpse on the frozen and lonely streets of a metropolis, a society, a civilization even, all devoted to the ‘warm embrace’ of Eros.
My stare glazed over by the cruel bitterness of frustration and disappointment, my torso immobilised by the rigor mortis of unrequited love.

Here I stand, faceless and anonymous; like the ranks of office soldiers, marching along the avenues and corridors of commerce and wealth.
Here I stand; limp emotionally, physically and spiritually - like the broken hopes and dreams that come with a young contender’s shattered bones and battered flesh.
Here I stand, no longer with the gait and mannerisms of your typical love-struck adolescent.
Here I stand; incapacitated by that numbing anaesthetic of dismissal, the painful tourniquet used to cure the wound of love’s sweet searing arrow.

Jeff, John and Leonard proclaimed that all they’d learned from love was “how to shoot somebody who outdrew them”.
In my heart of hearts, I sincerely doubt that they ever had to take the bullet.

Naturally I didn't get in.

Also written a load of songs - although mainly the lyrics for now.

Slick:
I thought I could love you.I was looking forwards to telling you how beautiful you are.In more than just the regular way,
in a way most people don't see.I still want to tell you but I probably won't have a good opportunity to do so.I'm sure it would have made you happy but clearly it'll have to wait.

Ozymandias:
(Note: I never, ever write. This actually started as part of the conceit for a novel that's been eating my brain for a year now, but suddenly turned into something different.)


Every day of everyone's life, they're aware that it's just a countdown. A ticking clock to the end, the inevitable point where everyone has to succumb to entropy. So many people fear it, feeling like they have to work their lives to the bone to make it all worth something.

I miss that.

I miss when I would lie awake at night, in those minutes that drag before sleep finally comes, thinking about mortality and hoping that it wouldn't come for me. Not this night, not yet.

I miss wondering if I will be judged after I die. If a shining man will tell me I was good or bad. If the weight of my deeds will raise me up into a higher place or sink me into the depths of pain.

I miss wondering if pulling a trigger would really be the end I want. A sad, pathetic life, punctuated with a bang.

I miss you.

!

ampersandwitch:
Corroborating evidence to my objection that 'everyone can write' when people tell me that I can write and should therefore be a writer.  There is some really great work on this thread.

Keep it up, busty babes.

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