Black DeathWelcome to my story. Well, I hope it was a story. I'm still not quite sure myself... People called me Anea Bell. But not anymore. Not after what happened.Black Death by MontyBojangles
Near where I lived was a small forest that always bloomed early but dropped its beautiful crimson leaves early. Many nightmares were set in this forest, from young to old in this village. The tight entrance was almost too fairy tale for it to be believable: A large arch was created by two slender trees that leaned towards each other, drawn by gravitational attraction. A fine yet rugged path lead further into the groggy forest. It was one of those mysterious, creepy evenings where the fog was thick and creatures were roaming. A small whimpering resonated from within... I had the primal urge to run in and investigate, save the poor little thing. But those nightmares recently... I know I needed to go in. I just chose to go slowly. You know, in case I might trip?
As I creeped in, I had the distinct feeling that I was being watched from a
LucyLucy. Yes, that was her name. She wrote quickly, finely, leaving her mark on the old, weathered wall. Smiling. Happy. Unaware. Crystal white flakes of hope fell from the silver grey sky which settled on her wispy, blonde hair. A muffled clang came from behind. Lucy jumped, alarmed. A strong breeze ruffled her fine hair, but quickly vanished. In the distance, opposite the ancient wall sat a shop. No-one had seen anyone enter; no-one had seen anyone leave. A small doll, covered in detailed, fine wispy blonde hair sat staring with its pale baby-blue eyes. Lucy walked with grace through the idyllic yet harsh snow, towards the rusty exterior of the shop. She placed her head on the ice-cold window and instantly beamed, wanting the item that she could see. She skipped with the elegance of a dancer over to the shop’s antediluvian door and attempted to enter the shop. Clunk. Creeeak. The door refused to open. Alas for poor Lucy, the door did not open. Upset, the thwarted Lucy stomped awayLucy by MontyBojangles
A Shattered MindI was content in the world. I may not have been rich, handsome or surrounded by the best of people, but I was happy. I could spend day upon day, simply thinking, playing or roaming the out of doors. It was that one momentous day that I met her. The girl that could only fulfil my dreams. Sweet, funny and attractive. Amanda, I think was her name.A Shattered Mind by MontyBojangles
It was alike any other day. Sunny, warm and cloud free; something very unfamiliar to the people of England. Rather than spend all day in the miserable dark, I decided to roam free, in the vast fields that surrounded my tiny village. As I set foot outside my house, not once did I think that I might just see the girl that would complete my life. I walked down the short, industrial road with cookie cutter houses joined down either side. This was a small price to pay for the size of the village; which had been here for hundreds of years. I came to the one and only crossing on my journey. A set of ancient traffic lights which hadn’t seen much c
WastelandHe lay there. The wind passed over the tent, quietly whispering to the occupants. The sun, weak but beautiful, sat still in the frozen night. With each breath, clean, icy air filled lungs. There were only five of them here. Alone. In the wilderness. Surrounded by miles, upon miles of wasteland. The zip tears down, a head comes out.Wasteland by MontyBojangles
One man. He wakes the others, tells them to get a move on. One by one, each member climbs groggily out of their tent. Except one. The group don't notice. They have to prepare for the day.
They're ready. The last member still hasn't come out, they slowly tug the zip upwards, breaking it free of the icy grip. They call. No response. One of the members enters the tent, only to come out moments later, whiter than the ice that he stands on. He drags the body of the last member out onto the smooth ice. He lay there. Several gasp. The member who dragged the poor, frozen soul out stares endlessly at the body. His friend. Crystals of blood surround a harsh cut
To the few people who consider me to be their friend:
I admit it. I can be an idiot. I'll often appear to be a complete and utter cock or never agree with anything you say. I constantly seem to hate on things you like, or comment on everything in a way that irritates you.
If I comment on something that you like, but do it in a negative way (for example, >windows 8), I'm doing it in a friendly way, to poke at you. I don't actually hate on it (unless it's Apple, damn you Apple) - I'm being friendly. Okay, I can understand that through text, it's a lot harder to get the actual meaning across. It's meant to be a jibe (Google thinks that's a sailing term, but www.urbandictionary.com/define… has it - a friendly insult) and something not to be taken seriously.
I can be serious. But when I'm serious, you usually know. But there's a lot of times you take me serious when I'm just kidding around and being friendly. I know I'm hardly the most friendly of people, but I never hurt with intention. I hate doing that. I hate being angry. I hate causing pain.
This has lead to many fallings out in the past. I never remembered to explain it. But here it is, after a night of hardly sleeping (or was it hard sleeping?) and constantly thinking.
There have been times where I have completely failed as a friend. Every single time, it's my fault. It's always my fault. Very rarely is it due to someone else. I ask of this: Please forgive me. There are times, I'm sure of it, when people do enjoy my company... and I can only hope those times outweigh the negative effects I have.
Your resident tall person,
I like space. |
I'm just too cynical.
I can bring fun, I can bring pain...
I like to play my hand with debates (Try me).
I've been known to dabble with photography and literature
Apparently, I remind people of Jeremy Clarkson.
I take pride in the fact I will be the most uninteresting person you will talk to.
People always copy my most uncreative of names.
Ad astra per aspera, ad honorem.
2 + 2 = 5
I can neither confirm or deny that I have worked for the NSA.
And I'm afraid I've run out of things to tell you.
Oh, maybe this:
No need to say thanks for the random favourite/watch! I know you love doing it, but I know