creative writing

Seizure Online Magazine – The Leech Farms

Have a read of this- blood curdling, bone chilling; a place not far from here. 

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0920 service to Central: Delayed.

“She just Fell down the stairs. Snapped her thigh right in half. So I took a photo of it, terrible. Yeah, I’d say she was older, but not old. Well, I know because i was there I was right beside her. Excuse you, I saw her leg snap out at a right angle! That’s exactly right, she should have waited until the train stopped. She should have grabbed a hand rail. I always wait on flat ground, always. No, she wasn’t wearing heels, she had joggers and jeans. I always carry flats in my bag, for times like these.”

Balsamic Vignettes #9

#9

Milly was a girl of short stature, with two light brown bobby pins used to keep her jet black hair neat. Her pale skin hadn’t been kissed by the sun enough to sport any freckles at all and her grey eyes entranced no boys at school.

For Milly, the ultimate satisfaction could be found not in golden sunsets or drinkable coffees, in optimum- temperature museums or in alpine retreats. She cared less about chirping birds than she did for Saturday night discos and she hardly ever raised an eyebrow as the ice-cream van made the rounds of her neighbourhood.

Yet her favourite past-time, her absolute reason for existence, was her fervent worship of terrible Kung Fu films. She praised the low-quality Hong Kong cinema with reverence and prostrated before the altar of shocking special effects. Her collection was solely of Chinese films from the 1980s, where the language is Mandarin and the subtitles are Cantonese, the elderly grandmasters were as tough as a $2 steak and the magenta blood sprays oceans. She stood in the dim, flickering light of the television screen and copied their moves. By her teenage years, she was able to authentically replicate Muay Thai moves, Capoeira kicks, Jiu Jistu jabs and achieve the most phenomenal sense of Eastern Zen.

Balsamic Vignettes #8

#8
“There was this lady on the bus trip, right, she chucked a wobbly and was flown out of Dublin.”

“Good grief, flown out of Ireland because she chucked a wobbly? Must’ve been some tantrum!”

“Nah, she was found sleeping on the bus and turns out she had no pulse. Thru for a medical team and everything to fly her out of Dublin.”

“That’s… Having no pulse is not the same as chucking a wobbly.”

I am a freight train.

I am a freight train that rips past suburbs and stations and I pause between stops. I am manned by a solo driver- one who has been driving for too long without a break, one who had been driving for not long enough to deal with a real emergency situation. I am the freight train that require time for the compression brakes to screech to a halt because there’s too much cargo to stop at whim. My full force can kill, leaving a grease stain on the side bar.

I am a violent storm.

I am a violent storm that rips through the earth. I am a hurricane that destroys everything in my path. I provide fresh relief, cool aid when in trouble, my downpour can replenish the ground. I am a thick fog that simpers throughout the city, I am aimless and heavy. I am both feared and revered. I am both necessary and unnecessary. I am both loved and unwanted. I rain down upon everyone, like acid rain I am bitter in nature. Run.

The room.

Festering sheets (months old) scuzzy tissues scurry from whence they landed stuffed toys with sentimental value overpopulate the slim frame while an enchanting mermaid doona entrances the sleeper into a time-warp enhances the twenty year old by coaxing out the four year old as fairies on sticks glitter from atop the cabinet unicorn wallpaper faded and peeling sprints (as wild horses do) around the amber glow pausing at the door with care Dylan Thomas Edgar Degas George Auriol and a giant sequoia tree (hacked from an old National Geographic) litter the walls while an autographed (by Robert Curran himself) copy of a Madama Butterfly programme looks on. The mattress is firm. The blankets are dusty.