Creative Writing


Thick silence. Broken by the heavy blur of spluttered coughs from wheezing lips, the sticky sound of shuddered breath through crusted noses slicing the quiet from all directions. A room cut by a plagued knife. Sunken eyes reach out from faded white faces, black and blue bags hanging loosely beneath swollen bloodshot pupils. Hair, a tangled mess of gnarled tree branches, lies strewn across the expressionless void of face, noses nestled like sleeping crows behind the barbed wire. Mouths hang half open, some revealing the faint trickle of drool, others stained with the bloody remains of Colgate around the corners. Shaking hands support heavy skulls, the flash of device screens illuminating zombified features in the morning darkness. Cracked chalky lips, wrinkled clothes plastered to the body and the paranormal presence of a shadowy figure, reaching its claws into the fragile minds of the creatures huddled in this dank dungeon.

Although it could not be seen to the naked eye, the unaffected man standing solemnly at the front of this grave yard could sense the shadowy figures grip on those affected. The han-ghoul-ver was feasting on the tortured souls of those in the dungeon, harvesting headaches and nurturing nausea. Those whom were so full of life the previous evening now broken empty husks, rotting where they sat.possessed. With a swift flick of a switch, the dark dungeon was cast in artificial light, causing the han-ghoul-ver to slink silently into the shadowed corner, its twisted fingers retracting slightly from the minds of the creatures, whose gaunt faces raised from the safety of the desks revealing less animalistic and more human features, staring emptily into the mans soul…hungry for sleep. He realised he would have to fight for his life.

The Monday morning seminar had begun.

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Toby Skinner

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May 2022
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