Okay, so this thread has officially been left to moult. :P I've finished all of Glen Rodes, but to mix it up a little here's some poems I wrote a good while ago:
Deja Vu - In The Point of View of a Dog
Sitting outside the café
and especially pointless
in the rain.
I shake myself
and look eagerly into
the lit window
wishing for my Person
sitting at the table
reading his newspaper
to bring me a treat.
A movement breaks me
from thoughts of my stomach.
walking in this direction
with no coat,
with no umbrella,
suffering the onslaught
of the elements.
I trot towards it,
as far as the restraining leash
It moves on,
oblivious to the light
of the open café,
the encouraging glow
and pulsing vibrations of heat.
Curious, I think, and
give a bark of greeting.
It turns its head,
wet fur clinging to its neck,
and acknowledges me.
Déjà vu sweeps over me
almost like a warm blanket.
I sit back down and think.
Life goes on.
Days are outnumbered
by cold nights
big and small,
and no matter how long you leave them
they get bigger;
that you can’t open.
Life goes on.
is not the same
without the extra load
of watching out for him.
Crossing the street,
looking back to make sure he’s there,
but knowing he isn’t,
and leaves it watching,
laughing at me
with tormenting eyes.
Life goes on.
School work is forgotten
as fast as it is written,
drifting off the paper
and into some vault
in the back of my mind
with a seal that I cannot break.
I look up to the faces around me,
wondering whether they know
how a town can change
from something you once adored,
to a dull setting
for a horror movie that is forever on loop.
I'd like to hear what you all think!
Some more Glen Rodes. I've written three sequels to the story that you're seeing here now, but remembered I haven't even posted the end of the first! Enjoy Part... 13, I think:
* * *
It took much more work than I thought to sneak into the office itself.
Voices drifted around me, and I could swear my breathing echoed throughout the entire building. The air vents weren't comfortable. The unmistakable husky tone of cop flowed through the vents, and I bit back a scowl. It was impossible that he had been working for Stow. Impossible.
Speaking of the devil, he started to say something in response. I could only catch a few words as I wriggled through the vent. There was a slight click as my heel kicked against a chute. The voices stopped.
I held my breath until I could hear Richard speaking again. This time I could make out most of the conversation.
'... have to move him.'
'Anywhere. Rodes is on to us.'
'Rodes? As in Glen Rodes? Locksley's criminal counterpart?' Stow chuckled. 'I'm sure that's not going to be a worry any longer. He'll tell us everything, eventually.'
I could almost see the frown settling on Richard's face. I always associated that face with a disgruntled cop during interrogation; believe me, I had been to my fair share of those.
The conversation was quite unsettling. If Stow had been talking about Locksley, it was almost certain that he had him bottled up somewhere, with his tough guys beating him for information. On what, I didn't know. If I wanted to care, I probably couldn't.
Then the chute collapsed and I face planted right on top of Stow's mahogany desk.
*dpm* Yes, it's me again.
This semester my school has decided to take more time out of my life and give me a research project. Yay! *sarcasm intended* However I've managed to manipulate their requirements so I can write a novel. I've decided to post little segments here, just so I can get any feedback in hopes of improving it. Here's the very beginning:
I'm open to feedback. :)
It was raining in Emory.
The funeral had long ago ended. Still the bell in the uppermost spire of the church continued to toll mourning. People had vanished off the streets, into the shelter of houses and offices; a death did not deter from the working day. An ever-present blanket of smog seeped through the town, giving the illusion of night and haunt. The rain made a rhythmic sound against the roofs and ground.
Through this nostalgic scene scurried the night watchman. Boots squelching in the steadily forming puddles, he ran past the town’s main crossroads and onto the dirt trail; towards the place all roads in Emory eventually wound. He patrolled the church on most nights. Today was no exception, but despite the sky’s appearance, night was still yet to fall. He was hurrying down the path to return the doctor’s coat.
Frank didn’t know much about Dr Blaire. There was no argument that many others in Emory didn’t, either. In a small town far from the politics of big cities and the conflict of civilisation, citizens were like family. Everyone knew his or her neighbour. The sheriff was your friend, the church father your closest confidant. Even Frank wasn’t just an extra hand at work, guarding the church merely to put food on his table. He sometimes imagined that the people who waved to him on occasion were his friends.
But Dr Blaire was a different story. For a respected man in his field, a devoted scientist, to so suddenly drop from the face of the earth was uncalled for and unwanted in a place like Emory. He’d treated everyone in town at least once for some kind of ailment, sometimes a thing so small as a papercut. Frank, an onlooker, had seen nothing wrong with him. Truthfully, no one expected Dr Blaire to end up the way he did: unknown, a secret.
The change started a year ago. Dr Blaire, admired and acclaimed, had disappeared. He stopped seeing patients; he didn’t leave his house, a building standing alone on the outskirts of town, at all. It was mused that the death of his wife was finally starting to take its toll. His friends tried to visit.
But for some strange reason, nobody wanted to go anywhere near the Blaire house.
There was an unconscious fear in the air. The doctor’s absence planted the seeds of doubt in minds, wondering for the first time what went on in the house with flickering lights, the house where they swore screams could be heard from in the middle of the night.
So people began to hate. Fear had a strange impact on Emory: expressing itself in the form of anger and repulsion. No one went near the Blaire house again.
Frank certainly didn’t want to go anywhere near the place; he did not want to return the doctor’s coat.