The buildings were made of bricks and timber - standing in place for a hundred years, throughout the reign of King Edward and all four of his successors, the war his son would oversee and his grandson afterwards. Others were modern, big walls of glass with white stone as frames. Black Taxi cabs zoomed through the brown cobbled streets, and big red double decker buses groaned after them. The black clouds above floated with quick pace, spitting cold rain down from above. In the distance, skyscrapers did exactly as their name suggested they would. The air was filled with rush hour hustle and bustle; the chatterings of multiple different dialects and languages and accents, the cars, the buses, the taxis, the trains below, the crackle of the thunder above. Men and women hurried by, umbrellas above their heads, large coats adorned over their bodies, all rushing to get to work, to get home. They swarmed the streets like ants. For a moment, the streets were clean of bodily crimson, the noise was the pure sound of the regular hustle and bustle of the city, and things were... normal. Peaceful, even. The press of a single button changed all that.
i wrote a thing it's called a music review im a music reviewer now apparently jk i just had the perfect opportunity to do it and wanted to experiment with something different but i hope im a good music reviewer like a really good 1 if you enjoy maybe ill do more if you're interested pls read contains language thank u god bless xxx https://didakt1kos.wordpress.com/2018/11/30/a-brief-inquiry-into-online-relationships/
"Miss, can I go the toilet?" I said. The teacher at the front of the classroom nodded her head and said 'of course', shouting above the noise. She was my Year 12 tutor - a tank of a woman beneath an oversized black skirt and a beige cardigan, with grey hair cut into a bob. She was one of the most friendly teachers I've had the delight to cross paths with. My actual class, however, was made up of people I hadn't seen since Year 11. People I'd known since I was eleven years old, some since I was four, and most of which I had never seen again since I was sixteen. And for whatever reason, we all lay on beds dotted throughout the classroom. Some people slept. I myself had been laying on a pillow, scrolling through something on my phone. I thought nothing of the situation and moved myself into the corridor. The corridor was different to the one that was actually in my old school. Windows lined every panel of the wall, shining bright cascades of light into my eyes. They had no effect on me. My eyes did not water, they did not blink, as the sensitive buggers would have done with real light. I thought nothing of it and moved myself through the corridor, to a wooden door on my left hand side. A pristine wooden door stood before me. I opened it, revealing a clean and sparkling toilet inside the cubicle. "Miss, can I go to the toilet?" I said. The teacher at the front of the classroom nodded her head and said 'of course', shouting above the noise. She was my Year 12 tutor - a jeep of a woman beneath a faded black skirt and a holey beige cardigan, with grey hair cut into a bob. She was one of the most friendly teachers I've had the delight to cross paths with. My actual class was made up of people I hadn't seen since Year 11. People I'd known since I was eleven years old, some since I was four, and most of which I had never seen again since I was sixteen. We all lay on beds dotted throughout the classroom. They were rickety things, made of thin metal with wirey sheets supporting stringy mattresses. Some people slept on them. I myself had been laying on the mattress - my pillow was gone, given to the girl next to me - reading a book. I moved myself into the corridor. The corridor was shorter than I recalled, much darker. A few windows. The sun was bright as ever. I moved myself through it and opened the wooden door on my left hand side. The toilet inside had damp coating the walls. The roof had a square raising in it, leading to four open windows. The cubicle in front of me had a rotting wooden door. I heard children playing outside. It's tutor time, I thought. Not break. I was curious. I grabbed a stool and looked over to the windows. The school didn't seem to exist around me. I was looking over a ledge with a straight, twenty foot drop. In the playground below, children played without a care for the world around them. They were like ghosts. They wore old school uniforms, the kind my parents wore when they were at this school in the 1980s, yet the uniforms looked brand new - perfectly suitable for present use, if their designs and logos were not thirty years old. One child looked at me, holding unfaltering eye contact. She looked suspiciously like my mother. "Miss, can I go the toilet?" I said. The teacher at the front of the classroom nodded her head and said 'of course', attempting to shout over the noise. Her voice was raspy. Her skin was like leather, her face almost skeletal with sunken eyes. She was my Year 12 tutor - a shell of a woman beneath a holey, grey, faded shirt. The cardigan that covered it might as well have been beige coloured strings, but I wanted to save that word to describe her thinning, grey hair, cut into a bob. She was one of the most friendly teachers I've had the delight to cross paths with. My actual class was made up of people I hadn't seen since Year 11. People I'd known since I was eleven years old, some since I was four, and most of which I had never seen again since I was sixteen. We all lay on mattresses dotted throughout the classroom. Some people slept on them. I myself had been laying on one, reading a book, cold from the lack of a blanket and my back hurting from the lack of a pillow. I moved myself outside. There, in the middle of this... garden, was a single toilet. A single toilet. Outside. It had no lid and the white ceramic was stained all sorts of colours. I moved over to it. The water was the colour of faeces and vomit and urine, with stains splashed all up the sides. But when you have to go, you have to go... I heard a door swing open behind me. I put my hands back to where they had been and turned to face the noise. A door was open on a hill beside me. A soldier was holding it open. Rays shone through, but I could see the greens and the beige of his uniform and his steel hat. 'I found a way out!' he yelled, to all the soldiers arranged in a line behind him. A metal man sprung up behind them as they attempted to run through. He pressed the trigger on his mighty gun and it spewed flames. The soldiers were turned to black dust. Panicked, I ran back into the school. I had to tell people, save them. I burst through the door, entering a corridor. It was not my school. This was some kind of stately home, with mahogany walls and fancy wallpaper and hung up paintings. I walked past a room where a man, all of his medallions still attached to his body, lay bleeding on the floor. A small boy rested at his side, holding his hand. 'You'll grow up to be just like me,' he said. He died. The boy cried. I walked on. The butler of the house came out of the room beside me and walked through me, going up the stairs. He was a ghost. I called out to him. Nothing. I followed. The upstairs was filled with more paintings. 'You were supposed to be just like him!' I heard. It was the butler. 'Just like your dad!' I followed the noise but I couldn't find it. 'You're a disappointment to your family.' I stood before the classroom in my denim jacket. I hadn't been to school in this before, and I was anxious. I wondered what people would think. Was it cool? Too old? Too holey? I swung the door to the classroom open. It was full of people. People I hadn't seen since Year 11. People I'd known since I was eleven years old, some since I was four, and most of which I had never seen again since I was sixteen. And my Year 12 tutor. She was one of the most friendly teachers I'd ever had the delight to cross paths with. They were all corpses that littered the empty classroom floor. No desks, no chairs, no beds, no mattresses, no pillows, no blankets. Corpses. All corpses. I tried to run back outside. What happened? The door was locked. I was stuck in the classroom. The classroom of corpses.
Adisa awoke to his mother 's nudges. He got up on all fours, stretched, and yawned. Mother giggled. "You'll be able to hunt with those big teeth very soon, I think." Adisa had looked at her with a smile. He playfully swiped at the air with his paws and rolled over onto his side, biting and wriggling around in the grass of the Savanna. "I'll be the best hunter the world's ever seen." Mother chuckled. "I think you've got a way to go." "Can I go with the others to hunt today? Please please please please!" Mother rolled her eyes and smiled. "Oh, fine. But be back by midday... even if they don't catch anything." It didn't matter though, because Adisa had already begun bounding away and paid no attention to what she was saying. All that mattered now was the wind hitting his face, his mane blowing back against his neck, and the rustle and the feel of the Savanna's dry orange grass beneath his paws. The acacia trees did not blow in the wind today, but they should have, for they had never seen someone blow past them as fast as Adisa did that morning. He imagined he was chasing a striped zebra, a hair's length from pouncing onto its rear and working his way up the body to chomp down into its throat. It was a surprise when he narrowly skipped past Gadise the Giraffe's leg. "Adisa, look where you're going! I could have squashed you!" she yelled. "Sorry Gadise!" Adisa yelled back, but he knew she wouldn't have squashed him. There was nothing that made him stronger than the freedom of the lion, and right now he was living it to it's full worth. It was his shield, impenetrable from the likes of Gadise's hoof. When he finally made it up to the rest of the pack, he had already caught the imaginary zebra several times. Today, he was determined that, at long last, he would catch one for himself. Boipelo led the pack from the front. He was an incredibly large lion, with leg and stomach fat that jiggled when he walked. He'd taken over as one of the Pride's Kings six years ago, all youthful and full of promise, the best of the best, but had ended up just like his predecessor in the end. He'd seized power with another, all youthful and full of promise and promises - promises that he ultimately broke. The Pride had told him to leave, and now only Boipelo remained. When Adisa told him his plan, Boipelo had just looked down and said, "I don't think so. Look, don't touch." Boipelo was joined side by side by his mate, Akachi, and his best friend, Abimbola. Akachi was the oldest, most experienced lioness in the entire Pride, and had given birth to Boipelo's two sons, Berko and Dayo. Abimbola, on the other hand, was no lion at all - he was a vulture, happy to scavenge and largely unable to hunt. Mother had called him a 'liar and a lunatic', but Adisa hadn't dared to tell Boipelo or Abimbola that. Behind them, Faraji, a lion who had made several attempts to become King but had always vastly fallen short of even getting close, followed closely. Adisa slunk away to the very end of the pack, disappointed but not surprised. He found himself next to one of the young lionesses, Chichi. She was almost his age, older by only a year or two. "You'll get to do it one day." She smiled. "Boipelo is just doing what's best for you. Listen to him and I'm sure you'll be rewarded when the time comes." Adisa sulked. "You sound just like Mother." "You get taught what I got taught and what our parents got taught. What a surprise!" "I just feel like there's more to it." He shrugged. "All of you do. You come along and you think you'll be the one to change things, and then you realise what everything is like, and you move to the back of the pack on purpose. It's just... best to get ahead of yourself and stay here now rather than have to do all of that later." Adisa had looked at her disapprovingly and shook his head. They walked for what felt like hours without seeing anything, and Adisa felt his stomach rumbling. He wondered what it was like for mother at home - she'd sacrificed several meals in recent days for his sake. If he could just make sure they got something to take back... Boipelo crouched down into the grass. Abimbola hopped off his shoulder and made sure not to make a sound as he hit the floor. Akachi and Fariji followed in his lead. The others did the same, until the crouching wave hit Adisa and Chichi. He crouched and sniffed the air - zebra. They moved forward. Slowly. Slower. Slowly. Slower. Slowly, slowly, slowly. Boipelo roared and pounced, and the others followed. "I'll be right back." Adisa said, jumping away from Chichi and into the long grass. He heard her yell "wha-?", but she did not give chase. Adisa ran as hard as his legs could carry him, ignoring the whips of the grass against his face. He listened closely, paying attention to the way the zebra and the pack were moving. They had missed the zebra - it was getting away. They were still giving chase, but Adisa knew they probably couldn't catch up. This was his time to shine. Adisa leapt out of the grass, colliding into the zebra, claws and teeth bared. He grappled onto it. The zebra kicked and tried to toss him off it. He clung on for dear life, sinking his claws deeper and deeper. He slung onto its underside, dragging it down onto the floor. It let out one last yell for help before his teeth silenced it forever. He crawled out from beneath it, his teeth and his snout and his whiskers painted with the fresh blood of his first kill. "I DID IT!" He yelled, grinning. Boipelo bounded towards him and swiped Adisa away, launching him into the tall grass. The world span. When he came back to his senses, he realised he was on his back. Abimbola flew overhead - Adisa heard him land nearby. He got up onto his feet and shook his head and made his way over to the rest of the pack. He looked at Boipelo, Akachi, Abimbolo, and several others who were good friends of Boipelo's... feasting on the zebra. Adisa's zebra. "The ones who made the most effort towards the kill get feeding rights." Fariji said. "Or so they say." "They didn't do anything." Adisa clenched his teeth. "I told you to stay at the back of the pack." Chichi said with a furrowed brow. Adisa walked over to Boipelo and cleared his throat. "That's mine." He said. Boipelo paid no attention. "I said," Adisa spoke louder. "That's mine." Boipelo turned to look at him. Bloodlust filled his eyes and his lips were peeled back, rattling with a low growl. Adisa did not look away. "My mother is starving." Boipelo stepped aside. "You and your mother may have a quarter of this zebra. When she gets here, you will tell her of your performance here today, but you did not make the killing blow. If I find out you told her otherwise, I will kill you myself. Are we understood?" Adisa looked at him for several seconds and nodded. Boipelo threw back his head and roared. Somewhere in the distance, the rest of the Pride did the same. They would be here soon.
I’m sorry that I said those things, I’m sorry that I didn’t say goodnight, To you, dad, I wish that I could still cling, I know now to hold on tight, But don’t you worry, Because I’ll be fine, You left in a hurry but I’m doing fine, Just give me some time, And I promise that I’ll be just fine, I’m sorry that I said those things, Bet you’re sorry to have given us such a fright, To you, dad, I wish that I could cling, I know now to hold on tight, But don’t you worry, Because I’ll be fine, You left in a hurry but I’m doing fine, Just give me some time, And I promise that I’ll be just fine, Why did you have to go, The sun isn’t the only light I need, Now I feel so low, And for you I feel so much greed, You were supposed to watch us grow, And now I feel so low, But don’t you worry, Because I’ll be fine, You left in a hurry but I’m doing fine, Just give me some time, And I promise that I’ll be just fine, You know I’m not right now, I will be soon though, You know I can’t tell you a lie, With the sweat of my brow, I’ll make you proud, Cross my fingers and hope to die, But just for now, I’m sorry that I said those things, I’m sorry that I didn’t say goodnight, To you, dad, I wish that I could still cling, I know now to hold on tight, But don’t you worry, Because I’ll be fine, You left in a hurry but I’m doing fine, Just give me some time, And I promise that I’ll be just fine
Hey soul. Just seeing this. Im so sorry. My thoughts are with you mate. Wish I could share my strength, but I know you have plenty within you. R
THE stock market suffered its worst crash in over ten years yesterday, as the epidemic that has ripped its way through the horse lords of Asia and ravaged Europe made its way to England’s shores. King Edward III announced that £28.1 million, partially funded by government borrowing and partially siphoned from the treasury, would be made available to businesses across the country in the form of loans. There would be no help for working people, however, and key workers - everyone besides the counts and dukes - are to be forced to stay in work. Upon his return to the House of Commons, he was given a bloody good bollocking from the Speaker of the House for failing to inform Parliament of his budgetary plans; but Parliament must remember that they are a recent addition to our governmental apparatus, and cannot stand in the way of our glorious leader’s divine right. The nation’s top plague doctors and the King’s Council have advised that all the people in this country must keep two metres apart from one another, only go to the market for essential items, and avoid all taverns in order to stagger the spread of the Black Death. The King himself, however, didn’t seem to be following that last bit of advice - we spotted him ordering a drink at a tavern last week. When asked for comment he said, “Nothing gets in the way of me and a bloody good pint,” and after knocking back a bottle of mead, told us humble peasants to “piss off and die.” June 5th, 1348
It's been a while since I posted in here and half of the people who've commented in here haven't been active for years, but... To those who enjoyed my posts in this thread, in years past or perhaps reading for the first time after this necrobump: after a little browse through the thread the other day, I am in the process of rewriting a few of these short stories. Some people appreciated my prose when I was fourteen, and I am confident in saying that my twenty-four year old self writes better than I have ever done. My dad instilled a love of reading into me when I was a child. He passed away in October 2019, and I lost any drive to write. In February 2020, whatever drive was left was squeezed out of me by the passing of my Year 5-6 primary school teacher, who when I was ten saw potential in my writing skills and encouraged me to write, going so far as to say he always imagined he'd stumble upon a book with my name on it one day. In January 2023, I met a very special woman who has forced me to get myself back in the saddle, think about what I want in life, and in some ways - although she doesn't know it - reconnect with the person I used to be before those events. Over the past year or so I have rediscovered my passion for creating stories and painting imagery with the written word. I have so many stories to tell and I want my life to be about telling stories, and I know better than most my age that I won't have forever to tell them. I am in the midst of writing a novel and an unrelated trilogy of novels. The latter will take some time, but the former is something I want to get self-published before the year is over. On top of more general miscellaneous musings on life, I will be publishing the updated short stories - and, perhaps, some chapters from the novel/s - on my new blog. If there is anything in this thread you enjoyed reading, I would ask that you please keep an eye on atotallyradicalblog.wordpress.com (domain name probably subject to change). Thanks sexy moos x
