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Nostalgia

I yearn for evenings in the city, when the last remnants of red sunlight spilled into the twilight like ink in water as it dipped over the horizon. For when rooftops were dyed a dusky purple, and street lamps flickered on throughout the city, mingling and merging with the bright stars in the heavens like fireflies in the night. For when somewhere, in the midst of the windows and spires, a mournful melody would float into the arching belly of the sky, the wavering voice telling tales of love and sorrow with every yearning syllable.

I long for when the rich ladies and gentlemen of the city would flock to the opera house. All those who were of high class were drawn to music the way that moths are drawn to the moon - instinctively and irresistibly. I was one of those people, those who flitted and fluttered amongst the sparkling flutes of champagne in their bejeweled dresses and diamond cufflinks - the socialites who seemed to exude confidence, an expression of ease and contentment forever on their wine flushed faces as their eyes reflected the abstract shapes of light scattered by the crystal chandeliers up above. I long for when I was consumed entirely and wholly by that thrumming crowd, and I long for when I talked to those whose smiles made me feel like I was needed - and in those moments when I was held in the honesty and the compassion in their gazes, they always made me feel like there was nobody that they'd rather talk to ever again other than me.

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My Thoughts On Things - Dragons

Ooh, dragons. Fiery baddies of every single fantasy tale since forever. With their sleek scales, fatal flames and wide wings, what's not to fear?

The answer is everything! Just imagine it – a gigantic, fire-breathing lizard that can fly. A gigantic. Fire-breathing lizard. That can fly. If that's not epic, I don't know what is. I mean, it might not be that great to the countless heroes who have perished at the hands of one of these mighty creatures, but dude. Dragons are awesome. I want one.

The problem is, what type of dragon would I get? There are the classic, slightly singed dragons; long, flowy dragons; short, stubby dragons and the cute little stuffed dolls you get in toy stores.

In my opinion, I'd get a Phaya Naga. It's a massive, serpentine water dragon from Thai culture. They have really snazzy heads and scales. Seriously. Google it. They're really majestic. Not only do they look really impressive, but they also breathe fire, which is amazing. Dragons, man.

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My Thoughts On Things - Group Projects

Most of the time, I despise group projects with a burning passion. Of course, there are some exceptions, like when the project in question is unnecessarily complex, but other than that, I like flying solo.

Sure, talking with my friends is fun. Sure, I enjoy mucking around. I love having a good time as much as the next person. However, work that I could have finished in 5 minutes by myself will take 10 times as long with freeloaders to drag me down. Screw those people who make my job harder for me – can't you see I'm trying to finish the damn thing so we can relax? Screw the teachers who insist that I include my team mates more – if you want me to co-operate, at least put me with people who actually want to get shit done!

It's not all the time that I want to shoot everyone though. I have many moments when, instead, I want to shoot myself. Maybe I'll have a headache or something, and the loud classroom combined with my group's bickering will be like a combo. K.O!

Shh! I'll let you in on a secret. I have a little trick to regain order in my team. If they won't listen to me and my futile attempts to organize everyone, I say “I give up! Do it yourselves!” and sit back. They all shut up and look at each other like “Well shit, I have no idea what to do,”. After a couple minutes, one of them begs me to help them and thus our work goes smoothly. Works every time.

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My Thoughts On Things - Cats

Cats are sleek hunters of the night. They are also evil and planning to wipe out the human race. Some people might say that they are cute, but they're talking about kittens. Kittens are adorable bundles of fluff. Cats are not.

The only reason somebody would ever get a cat, in my opinion, is to have a pet that you don't really have to look after. Cats mainly sleep, laze around or go off and do their own thing. They come back home because you will feed them, and that is the only reason. Also, maybe because they might want to be petted. Might. Probably not, though, because cats are pretentious, selfish Spawns of Satan.

They're always wreaking havoc on houses, pushing mugs off tables and stuff like that. Sleeping on keyboards. Ruining furniture. Have you seen the scratches my friends got from their cats?

I'm more of a dog person. With dogs, you can play with them and walk them, and since these friendly, warm, gentle giants love you as much as you love them, they're always up for cuddles. When you're feeling blue, dogs will cheer you up whilst cats glance at you once and go back to sleep. There's a theory that cats actually think of humans as big, clumsy kittens and that they're just trying to help keep you alive. But they don't have to be so damn aggressive about it.

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A Weak Voice

[The following series of recordings was recovered in an apartment block in Sarajevo after the lifting of the Siege. It is unknown who had left these audio logs, and what had become of them after they set down the voice recorder for the last time. They have been transcribed for you to read, as it is clear that these tapes serve a stark reminder of the brutality experienced by those who lived through the four long years that was the Siege of Sarajevo.]

Tape 1

[The man seems to be in his late twenties, though it is impossible to tell for sure. His voice is unsteady, though it's not clear whether or not it's from the cold, nervousness, or fear.]

The date is, uh, the 29th of November, I think. 1993. It's been something like a year and 8 months since this thing started, this... siege, is what they're calling it. I would say it's more like we're, uh, birds in a cage, but our owner's forgotten about us. Except our owner didn't forget about us, he's just starving us on purpose. Just watching us die, y'know? For fun. I don't know.

[He coughs, and clears his throat.]

Well either way, that's how it is. No food. No water. No electricity. It's like we've gone back in time. While others around the world are going to the cinema and phoning their friends, we're relearning how to live by candlelight. While the teenagers of other countries worry about what to wear to their dates, or stress about getting their homework done on time, the kids in our city worry about living another day. It's tragic, y'know. We're all worlds apart.

Tape 2

[A confident tone of voice. His voice is husky – it sounds like his throat is hurting from talking.]

It's me again. 19th of December, same year. It's not safe to go outside, but I know I have to, or else I'll starve. We all know that Sniper Alley is dangerous. The soldiers in the high-rise buildings have no mercy. Nowhere is safe, not when you're out in the open. Those monsters in the mountains too, they can see everything in the city. Everywhere, the signs; “Pazi – Snajper!” - “Watch out – sniper!”. Sometimes I like to think that the of shooting innocent people keeps them up at night, but then I remember how many of our children have been felled by their bullets.

[He sputters, and dissolves into a short coughing spell.]

I managed to get myself a loaf of bread. It was quiet out today; only the sound of wind rustling the red-stained newspapers stuck to the street. For the second time since the siege began, winter's come to this godforsaken city. When I was walking outside today, the cold air really pierced my skin. I felt the cold in my bones, especially when I remember that we'll not have the warmth of heaters to comfort us.

[A long pause.]

The colour of blood is different spilt on snow.

Tape 3

[A quiet, shaky voice. He speaks slowly.]

Went out to fetch water. Not a lot of clean water about now, but I need to make sure I have it. Many have been killed or fallen ill because of dirty water. I don't want to join them.

There was a dead woman in the river as I crossed the bridge.

[A voice crack.]

She was wearing a gold watch. The same kind as the one worn by my neighbour, the kind lady who has four young mouths to feed. The lady who lost her husband to his own thoughts.

[Sniffs.]

I tell myself that it was the cold wind that made my eyes water.

Tape 4

[Sniffing. Coughing.]

I don't know if I can keep doing this. I don't know if I'll be able to find enough batteries to keep this thing alive. But I know that people have to know what it was like living here. Earlier I saw some graffiti – somebody had spray painted “Welcome to Hell” on a wall. Whoever it was that did it, I agree with them. And I think the whole of Sarajevo agrees with them too.

[A slow, ragged sigh. A cough.]

It's hard to describe what it's truly like to experience all of this. It's hard for you to understand without experiencing it yourself. But now I can count each one of my ribs and the spaces between them without having to suck in my stomach and hold my breath. I coughed up some blood earlier. I don't think that's supposed to happen.

[Laughs bitterly, but the laugh morphs into a violent fit of coughing. The coughing subsides. Footsteps and the sound of a curtain being drawn. His voice sounds distant.]

Sometimes I look out of the window and watch the man in the building opposite. Most nights he used to eat dinner together with his wife, and though their soup was thin and their bread hard, they still managed to smile. Now, he stares emptily into the dark, and the table stays empty. Just the way it has been ever since his wife left one morning and didn't come back.

[His voice shakes again, but this time from barely contained anger and hidden sadness. Despite this, it has increased in volume. He is nearly shouting.]

I don't know what the hell we did to deserve this. I just don't know. But the truth is, nobody should ever have to go through this crap. Ever. A little part of me dies every day. I've been wasting away for god knows how long now. We all are. But there's a difference between me and everyone else:

[The sound of a gun being cocked.]

I'd rather kill myself than die a slow death.

Heyyy, it’s another piece of work from english class. I wrote this earlier this year when we were studying war poetry, and it’s inspired by Goran Simić’s The Sorrow Of Sarajevo. Just to clear up any confusion, the transcripts are all fictional, but that doesn’t make the events in my writing any less horrible. I hope you enjoyed reading (to some extent) :)

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Snow White

Once upon a time in a faraway land, there existed a secluded but peaceful kingdom tucked away in the mountains. The kingdom was ruled by the kind and just King Reginald, along with his elegant wife, Queen Maria. The royal couple was loved by all of their subjects, and everybody was happy.

One day, the King and Queen were blessed with a beautiful baby girl. The kingdom and its people rejoiced at the birth, and the festivities stretched long into the endless night. The new mother watched the celebrations from the window of her royal chambers, softly stroking the slumbering infant. Light from the coloured lanterns lining the streets illuminated her long and weary face, as blazing sparks from fireworks rained down from the heavens like falling stars.

“Lips as red as blood. Hair as black as coal. Skin as white as snow.” she whispered, watching her daughter's fragile chest rise and fall with every gentle breath. She returned her gaze to the window, staring blankly at the waning moon. “I shall call you Snow White.”

The villagers' joy quickly morphed into fear, however, as she was overcome with a fierce and sudden sickness. The following winter was long and miserable, and with each day, the Queen's health worsened until finally, the frost and ice melted away, taking her life with it. The kingdom was overcome with a wretched sadness, and the King fell into a deep despair from which he never fully recovered. He was a lone sailor navigating the waves of a stormy sea, guided only by the brightest light in his whole world – Snow White; she was a beacon of hope for everybody, and the innocence that radiated from her in waves never faltered.

The years went by, and Snow White blossomed from a cheerful young child into a graceful young maiden. She was much adored by all who knew her, and 'twas a common sight for the villagers to see her picking bouquets of wildflowers and frolicking with baby animals on the fringes of the woods.

Although Snow White had never had a maternal figure in her life since her own mother's untimely demise, it was all about to change one spring day, when a gilded carriage arrived at the castle gates.

It had been pulled by six red-plumed horses, whose ebony coats steamed with sweat. A beautiful woman in a luxurious dress stepped out of the carriage, and silently glided towards Snow White and her father, who were resting in the shade of a marble gazebo in the castle's expansive gardens, conversing and simply enjoying each other's company. The sudden presence of the tall and sophisticated woman prompted the King into a deep bow.

“Snow White, might I have the honour to introduce you to our esteemed guest?” the King rumbled, and the two ladies curtsied politely. “This is Duchess Camille. From this point onwards, my daughter, she will be tutoring you, as you are now fast approaching adulthood and there are some things that I, your father, cannot teach you.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Duchess” Snow White smiled sweetly, and extended her dainty hand in greeting.

“The pleasure is all mine, my child. I do look forward to mentoring such a fair young girl such as yourself.” the Duchess chuckled. Snow White looked down at her hands shyly, and the Duchess noticed that she was gripping a thick leather-bound journal. “My dear, may I inquire as to what is written inside that mysterious book of yours?” she asked.

The King beamed. “My lovely Snow is a gifted author,” he explained proudly, “All her greatest works are transcribed within those pages, many of them nothing short of ingenious. It is clear to see that she has natural talent.”

“Oh, father, surely you exaggerate.” Snow White blushed, clutching the book close to her chest. “Would you like to hear my most recent story, father?”

The King nodded eagerly and motioned for the Duchess, who arched a single eyebrow, to have a seat, as Snow White opened the book and flicked through the pages. She found the page she was looking for, cleared her throat, and began to read.

“ Once upon a time in a faraway land, there existed a secluded but peaceful kingdom tucked away in-”

The Duchess stood up abruptly, holding up a stern hand to silence Snow White, whose mouth gaped in disbelief.

“Right, I'm not having this,” she spat, disgusted. “That is the worst story I've ever heard in my life, and you haven't even finished the first sentence yet. It's so horribly cliched, and it's the least creative thing I've ever had the misfortune to witness. A fairytale? Really? I've seen pond scum come up with more interesting story lines than this.”

She stomped back to her carriage and hopped inside, slamming the door shut with a sharp bang.

“You are a disgrace to everyone who has ever written, everyone who is writing, and everyone who will ever write in the future. I would stick around longer, but if I hear your silly little voice for any longer, I'll go deaf!” she yelled, sticking her body out of the window so far that she nearly toppled out of the carriage. “Please do everyone a favour and burn that book. Just burn it. To ashes!”

The horses, startled by their master's cries, reared up and bolted, the carriage jerking into motion.

“Good riddance!” she shrieked, as she gradually disappeared out of sight and the angry screaming faded into the distance.

She was never to be seen again, while Snow White and her father, albeit deeply disturbed by the shocking outburst, lived happily ever after.

The End.

This was written in class for a timed assessment, which would explain the rather rushed ending. Personally, I thought this was pretty shit when I first wrote it, but my teacher said he loved it and asked me to polish it up a little bit. So I did. And here it is. I hope you liked it more than I did :^)

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How The Cheetah Got His Spots

When the Earth was young, there was no day or night. There was no time either. No sky, even. One day, the King of the Animals summoned all the creatures in the land to a meeting of great importance.

“We need day, night, time, and sky! We cannot cope with this anymore!” the Lion declared. He chose two animals to be the Day And Night Keepers. These two animals were the Cheetah and the Cockatoo. He then sent them to the witch doctor, Baboon. 

Once they reached Baboon, he gave each of them a seed to swallow. Then he cast a drop of water and a tiny flame up above his head. They ascended into the blackness, and once the animals could see them no longer, the Sky Goddess was born. Last but not least, he gathered a shiny, flat stone and spun it around. He had created time! The Cockatoo and the Cheetah swallowed their seeds, and they became the Day And Night Keepers.

Since Cockatoo was the day keeper, she was sentenced to fly around the world once when the twelfth hour approached in order to bring the first ever daytime. As she soared up into the newly made sky, the heavens lit up to be azure. The glorious sun, which was the Sky Goddess’ head, was so bright that the top of Cockatoo’s head was stained as yellow as a daffodil.

When it was Cheetah’s turn to run, the Sky Goddess was enjoying the light. Just as Cheetah began sprinting, the Sky Goddess plunged into despair.

“Don’t make it night! Let it be day forever!” she begged, but Cheetah took no notice. The Sky Goddess’ sobs filled the world and shook the mountains, but Cheetah still ignored her. Cheetah reached half way around the world when the Sky Goddess started to cry.

Her black tears trickled down her face and soaked her body. Suddenly, the world was in a downpour of inky black. A few tears stained Cheetah’s beautiful, golden fur. Noticing this, he ran faster than he ever did before, fuelled with adrenaline. He ran, and ran, and ran, and ran.

Mere minutes later, he reached the finishing point. Cockatoo, who had been sheltering underneath a palm tree, watched Cheetah coming towards her, and as soon as the big cat placed his paw on the finishing line, she took off. Amazingly, the world immediately turned into day again, while the sky goddess happily wiped off her tears. 

“Hooray! Hoorah!” Cheetah cheered. Little did he know, this disaster would happen every time he brought night to the world, for all eternity. From that point onwards, cheetahs have always had spots.

I wrote this short story in school when I was about 11 or 12. I actually really like the story myself, and I find it quite endearing. That is, if you manage to overlook the glaring plotholes in it :^)

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When The Night Comes

The aging building was disturbingly quiet – no painful groans of the floorboards, no anxious mumbling of unseen mice, and no tense heaving of ragged sighs. All life had stilled in the presence of the slumbering beast before me. 

The shrill cries of a bird far away echoed into nothingness, as though suffocated by the rolling fog. Dust laid undisturbed on the worn wood like clasped hands resting upon the chest of the dead, frozen in time.

Silence.

Stooping and leering over the deserted courtyard, the old oak tree ominously scraped at the masonry with thin, gnarled fingers. A statue watched over the rusting gate, defaced by moss and restrained by creeping vines – visitors were not welcome after dark.

A distressed, grey cloud of decay billowed into the fetid, stifling air. Sinuous, it lurched, weaved, and twisted around my legs like intangible shackles as I advanced into the looming unknown. The stark, blinding beam of my torch glanced nervously, singling out lone motes of dust that hadn't settled.

Slices of pale moonlight squirmed through the cracks in the boarded up windows, tumbling into the yawning gloom of the desolate hall. The once grand staircase in front of me was now a rancid mound of wood, gilded with mold. Shadows festered in the deep blackness of the crumbling steps like hooded spectres gliding in the night. They slithered into deep gashes in the wood as I climbed higher and higher, tangled in spindly webs before breaking free and lurking near jutting boards.

On the neglected, dirt-stained landing, I trembled in the face of the sinister emptiness. A bitter, biting breeze drifted through the empty window frames and whispered across my skin like fingers slowly tracing over my body. My mind reeling and prickling, I sensed something staring at me hungrily from just beyond the boundaries of my vision – something with hollow, sunken eyes...

Fear. Cold, stony fear that grabs at your throat and throttles you with thin, spidery fingers. The feeling that breathes down your neck, clutches at your panicking heart, breaches your mind and crawls into every hidden crevice on raw, skeletal limbs. Swallowing the creeping dread clogging my throat, I willed myself to move on.

As the office door creaked open slowly, the name plate glinted dully at me through the grime, timeworn and dejected. I let go of the cold handle, leaving it slick with the sweat of the nervous. Large piles of disintegrating ledgers and documents lay around the room, accented by plumes of must and untouched for years. I leant over a book split in the middle, where the corpse of a stained and torn ribbon lay dead on the blotted pages.

Sagging with the weight of many years, the battered desk complained miserably with a mutter when I ran my hand over the scratched surface. Clean tracks were left behind, showing me the former glory of the headmaster's quarters.

The door slammed shut like an angry screech, making my heart spasm and throwing my stomach into a never ending pit. Collapsing under the unbearable tension, the torch slipped out of my quivering fingers. It fell to the ground with a piercing crack and I scrambled after it, horrified. Hysterical and drunk with terror, the bulb flickered weakly like a candle in a breeze.

Once.

Twice.

Darkness.

Eyyy thanks for reading. Ya girl wrote this around two or three years ago for school. Ehhh it’s okay I guess but I was hella proud of it at the time. I hope you liked it :^)

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yet ANOTHER goddamn pic of the sky... but it was so pretty though *o*

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Lago Di Braies | ( by Hugo )

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The only good pics I can take on my phone are ones of the sky smh

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The icy Curtain

by Daniel Herr

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Have you ever heard of Chinstrap Penguins?

On volcanic island of Zavodovski, in the South Sandwich islands off the coast of South Georgia island, approximately 2 million chinstrap penguins thrive in what is the most expansive and populated penguin colony in the world. Just one of the 17 different species of penguin that exist, these small flightless birds live terribly arduous lives – lives which most of us can only imagine going through.

These penguins are easily identified by the thin, strap-like line on the underside of their heads. As it is the one unique feature of this particular species, it also serves as its namesake. Unlike the tall emperor penguins, the average height of chinstrap penguins is 68 – 27 inches. Feeding almost exclusively on krill, crustaceans and fish, these carnivorous birds must use their spectacular diving skills to hunt in the ocean every day. However, for the penguins who dwell on Zavodovski island, the journey to the sea that they must make is especially deadly.

Stormy seas and steep cliffs surround this island on all sides, and huge, powerful waves constantly smash penguins into the jagged rocks. Risking their lives, the penguins dive into the surf from the slippery slopes. Many lose their footing. Perfect timing is crucial to their survival, and there are no second chances. They fish 50 miles offshore, and must brave the cruel waves and vicious predators in order to feed their young. The trek back is also fatiguing – they have to ride the waves and propel themselves up the cliffs. Tiny claws help them to grip the rocks and grab hold so that they can climb out of the raging ocean. There is no guarantee that they will emerge from the din unscathed; broken limbs and excruciating cuts are inevitable, but death is the most tragic casualty – death for them means death for their family, who are relying heavily on them to return with the food. The hike back to the nest can be up to 2 miles, and the difficulty increases with a stomach full of prey. Once they have returned to their nests, it's their mate's turn to embark on this long commute - each penguin has to suffer through this exhausting journey every other day or their mate and chicks will die.

It is a truly remarkable journey that the chinstrap penguins must fight through, but unless we do something about it, feeding their families won't be the only thing threatening them. These birds go through such lengths to survive, and we should respect that instead of tearing them down. We should work hard to stop polluting oceans and overfishing, as penguins literally have no other food source apart from the fish that they hunt - their island is hostile and unforgiving, and it is a wonder in itself how these penguins manage to survive there.

Although it is true that right now, the conservation status of these penguins is “Least Concern”, we must fight hard to protect these animals no matter what. If we become complacent and neglect them, sooner or later, we will wake up one day to discover that chinstrap penguins no longer exist. However, that is not to say that we shouldn't divert attention from animals who are in dire danger of extinction – we should simply acknowledge that the chinstrap penguin is another valuable species that must be loved and protected, lest we make the same mistake that we have made so many times in the past.

In conclusion, the chinstrap penguin is just one of the many, many beautiful animals on this Earth. All creatures and animals are equal, and each species is unique in their own special way. Just like us humans, they live, breathe, eat, love, and die. Everything that is alive should be cherished, no matter what shape or size, no matter mammal or reptile, no matter plant or insect. In all honesty, the only feature that distinguishes us from the myriad of creatures that too call this blue plant their home is merely our species and the fact that we can make a difference. All that the human race really strives to do is to live another day – just like the chinstrap penguins.

Chinstrap penguins are hella cute and I wanted to share ^^ wrote this for science hw hehehe, i hope you learned something new through reading it :^)

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Violence

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Sparrow & Pelican | IG: geographyofrobots

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gentle current