She came on a summer’s night to rest on banks of gold.
Her stomach was too full with stories of blood untold.
She yawned a stench so thick; her jaws of hell were wide.
Chained by the pale one’s eye, where was I supposed to hide?
For writers new to the craft, the question of originality often proves a stumbling block. It is the question which can even prompt writers to scrap entire stories in the fear of being called derivative.
But much like all stifling mentalities which affect the ability to...
Today, I bought a disposable camera. This was the first time I’d held one in my hands since year six camp. Now, nine years later, I’ve decided to make a decision which will undoubtedly raise questions about my sense of judgement. It was strange, to say the least. To sa...