Okay, I guess you have read enough to realize that I normally write about the character being lonely, but this poem is kinda from the other side, what it is like to be the dead one.
Well, I finally got it done. The muchly revised edition of the second chapter of shadows. Go me. I hope you all like this one better than the first edition;)
My contribution to Herscher Project 19 (a very last minute affair for me, I joined tHP about a week before the project deadline). This one proved to be a challenge. The pictures I were given by our fearless leader, Jim Bowers, were much darker than I cared to write about. I gave my character an interesting sense of humour in order to lighten the mood. Special thanks to Malin M. Larsson of tHP for a wonderful title (my original really stank)!
one of my older poems, I kinda wrote it more like a song.
This is my attempt at a piece of folklore, an old song about the mythical figure known as 'Old Man black'. The people see him as the personification of death, and the owner of all souls that have died. This song illustrates common belief in why necromancy is so dangerous: In trying to master death, you essentially surrender your life to him before actually dying. In trying to command him, you end up his slave. Hmmm. I really have to upload those myths about him soon, so I won't have to explain all this all the time.
The old man is pretty much the focal point for me in this piece. He's modeled after my maternal grandfather, who must be one of the most miserable creatures in existence. I'm probably one of the only people in the world who actually likes him (my parents included), but I almost never visit him. It's just taxing... I kid you not when I say that he actually itemizes his grievances in a written list, and recounts them whenever a visitor comes in (for example). I'm not much of a people-person myself, and I find it awkward to be around him and try to cheer up the uncheerable, even though I sometimes feel like I understand him perhaps as well as anyone ever will. So in addition to a rumination on my own faltering sense of purpose, and general melancholy, this story was largely fueled by a desire to demonstrate some sort of likable side of my grandfather following my grandmother's death. A few people actually seem to have liked it; it must've come out all right in some ways, then.
It's a story. What more do you want to know? Okay, it's not just as good as I wanted it to be, but I just couldn't get the right mood on it (at least not in my opinion). Minor changes done in: 10.9.06
Just a little poem i wrote while sitting in the cemetery one night while wondering what the people in the unmarked graves might have done in thier lives.
A quiet little story dealing with the undead. And a grave digger.
My first novel ever! Please be easy on me, though...and the story isn't this depressing;)After you read this, check out Chapter 1!!(If you like it of course)
In reading a book about flowers I found that the Daffodil was involved in a Welsh legend of the Elyited Field, or Field of the dead. It said that the flower once covered the ground of this such place and is now used in funerals
This came to me in a dream, strangely enough...do not ask, just read if you dare...
This is a story I wrote a while back on the idea of revenge from beyond the grave. This is about what happens when someone is murdered and there is such anger that the soul cannot rest. Even dead flesh can animate once more...
Its about a secret in a church..and murder by a secred monk. and ghosts???
This was a project for school, where we had to descriptively create a photo-moment using all the senses. I was in a pretty depressive mood when I wrote it, so it's kinda morbid, but.. I've done worse ^^; Anywho, I really don't like it as much as some other things I've (almost) written, but I got a 38 out of 40 on it, and Mr. Merrick liked it, so I guess that's what counts..
another poem i wrote, after a friend told me the story of the 'Voodoo queen's grave' yeah...^^ bout it..other than its really bad aswell