Current Creative Endeavours and Ideas

Current Creative Endeavours

Streetlight Silhouettes

• Neo-Noir
• Writing as novel first
• Has potential to become a graphic novel and/or screenplay
• Design ideas
• Illustrations

Nightmare Squad

• Fantasy/Sci-fi/Strangeness 
• Writing as novel first
• Potential for episodic series
• Potential for full length script
• Potential for videogame
• Potential for designs
• Illustrations
• Vivid universe

The Devil's Jest

• Action/Adventure/Fantasy
• Screenplay
• Illustrations

Waking Nightmares

• Psychological thriller
• Screenplay
• Novel
• Designs?

IDEAS

•  Untitled children's story
• "Platypus Poetry, Crabs with Knives, and Other Misadventures"
• Strange and weird help manuals
• Designs
• Heart-On-Sleeve
• Horror stories
• Poetry collection with illustrations
• Various art/crafting projects
• Tattoo Designs

 

Sweet Silver Song of Clever Thieves

Another old poem I'm willing to  share.

Sweet Silver Song of Clever Thieves

Underneath a pool of moonlight

Some silver instrument plays

A song not heard in many days

Its glistening notes shimmer in the still night air

No other instrument can quite compare

Walking along the well-trodden road

I pause to lighten this heavy load

Underneath a pool of moonlight

I hear some silver instrument play

A perfect end to the day

Notes so pure and sweet

A sound no other instrument can hope to beat

I feel my eyes cloud in a misty haze

My mind’s in a daze

I will sleep now under the moon’s gentle gaze

Enchanted by the song

I sleep for far too long

And by the time

I wake, the moon quite gone,

The load that once was mine

Taken, for no more than a song

The thieves long gone

Thieves who played

Some silver instrument

Underneath a pool of moonlight.

My Darkness

I wrote this many years ago but I think it's alright

My Darkness

These days,

A muted aura consumes,

Casting out lustre,

Lacking the richness,

Denying vibrance.

I’m looking out a dirty window

And where once glowed a streetlight

Now only black shadow prevails.

Only darkness.

My darkness

Starless,

Where moon and sun become one,

Eclipsed and invisible.

And autumn shudders under winter’s touch,

While summer’s dryness claws at autumn’s throat.

Cool freshness lost, a  wind much in need to break free

Caged images hiding their worth,

Lost to sickly stale air, permeated with ill-fated errors.

Looking into a store window,

All that stares back is a silhouette of a reflection,

Hollow darkness.

My darkness.

Bloody Hands - Poetry Scrap

There was blood on her hands

As she wept,

Staring out the window,

As darkness came,

As darkness consumed,

And she sank into it,

Willingly to empty

The stench of death,

Her heavy shroud.

With dreams to mount the funeral pyre

O sweet relief,

The grasp of grief

Loosened lost.

A scarp of a poem. I lost the vibe on this one.

Silence

Cold and heavy, it fell upon her,

A tear shaped silence,

Down pale cheeks it ran.

The last candle extinguished,

And the dark lies heavy and still,

Engulfing a room,

Laden in sorrowful silence.

And in silence, she mourned,

The life she sought, but never knew,

The dreams dying within her,

The hopes long lost, left behind.

A Twisted Heart

A Twisted Heart

With trembling hands,

You held my dark and twisted heart,

For one melancholy hour,

I bled the poison of my soul for you

The poison that stained once red roses,

To bitter black.

The black that spills from my lips

--A dark decay within.

You held it,

You felt it,

So you took the knife,

Stabbed it within,

Twisted hard,

Till love, hate, life, and death

One, became

And altogether ceased.

Concrete Phantoms

So I wrote this years ago, haven't revisited it but I think it's pretty good

Concrete Phantoms

Grey concrete, the lining of a world in a box as clouded sky hangs overhead and walls of aged and dilapidated buildings surround an oil-slicked alleyway. Rainbow-laced streams of suwling waters pour towards rust encrusted grids, draining away an accumulation of dirt, dust, and other city refuse. Here a bony and dishevelled cat roves. A cat, cast out to convenieve through the streets in search of a place to call its own, a place to call home. Early each morning it pantanders through a labyrinth of discarded crates and soggy cardboard boxes for a bite to eat until the shop workers come armed with either brooms to make this cat go skittering, alarmed, and hittercanning away from the doors and underneath a stack of cracked crates or to vainly attempt to stuff yet another bag of trash into an already overstuffed dumpster. And if this stray’s lucky stars are in line a bag will fall split to the ground and she may feast upon a mess of odds and ends. When night comes sweeping through this concrete corridor, leaving garlands of shadow in its wake, a lone figure may enter the feasting feline’s domain, and perchance their eyes may meet, and a connection may be established, understanding, pity, or even some buried sorrow may surface. Instead the faloring figure lights a cigarette and continues along his path, a trail of smoke tavallering towards the palandering gaze of the starving homeless cat, alone once more as the phantom disappears into the night.