The children dance, as children do, unaware of the predators quietly lurking in their midst. Even as the doors swing closed and the first blood begins to be spilled, the dancing continues of a different sort; panicked cries and feet frozen in fear, arms flailing as bodies amass at what should have been an exit. It is all the same to those red smirking smiles, teeth gnashing in mirth as their pray attempt to flee. There is no escape, not truly, for the teeth are everywhere.

One girl had known of the presence of such bloody thieves, and attempted to warn her contemporaries, only to be taken aside and warned of demise should she not allow what would happen. The man was older and his hands firm on her shoulder as he guided her back to the party, where she proceeded to gather what few she could and escape through the bathroom windows.

A chase followed. She did not escape, held silenced against the very creature to warn her of her transgressions. She watched as her fellow party-goers were one by one caught and bled dry to sate the thirst of such creatures, until all but she remained, held firm in the arms of an adversary she could do nothing to protect herself against.

But oh, he had so much more planned for her, he would say. Such fire would not be wasted in death. Teeth pricked the girl’s neck but she could not scream, or even cry out in pain. Her probation period was over, and she has proven to be useful.

She will be kept.



This piece was inspired by a dream I once had (during, of course, my vampire phase, where I read everything I could about the creatures). It was definitely an interesting dream, to say the least.


Die Nacht

Darkness did nothing to save them from the night the demons came. They barrelled through the windows and the doors, shattering glass and wood and bones for a reason unknown to the dwellers of the small cottage. An ache had settled in the girls bones as she watched her father sister mother break and bend to the will of the monsters she knew not how to flee. A stench of blood and sweat and salt thickened the air like a smog around the family and their torturers.

Inspired by the expressionist work of Max Beckmam entitle Die Nacht. This was an exercise in one of my experimental poetics journal, and while it didn’t quite amount to anything substantial, it did indeed get the gears or inspiration working.

Encountered Innocence

You sit with your nose pointed towards the cool glass of the train window; waiting, as I wait, for our journey to begin. I’ve watched you like this every day, and every day a new expression will cross your features as though you were more complex than the mere child you are.

Across the way, where your eyes have settled, sits a young woman not yet old enough to be out in the world, and yet there she is, assaulting your own innocence with an appearance of feigned virtue.

Her eyes track the pages and your eyes track her, and if my own will were stronger I’d move you away from the sight. I know how unsettling the strange creatures of our world can be, especially those so similar to oneself, and it was never my intention to have you fear them, and yet I can see in your eyes that you are scared.

You turn to me and your features, small as they are, betray your repressed fear. This will not do, I tell myself, and as I move to take your hand and lead you away your face breaks into the widest of grins, you point to the girl and you say, light as ever, with the curiosity and wonder only a child can convey: “Daddy, look at the mermaid! Do you think I can be a mermaid too?”

It is in these moments that I fear myself, that I do not understand your own mind, the way I as a parent should do.


This work was inspired by Baudelaire’s piece entitled Eyes of the Poor, and I would definitely recommend reading it. It says a lot about assuming what we know about a person, even those we are closest to, or most intimate with.

Her hair was not red
For red was too angry
Not like this girl
Calm and cheerful

Her hair was the colour
Of crisp autumn leaves
Spiralling delicately
As they float on the breeze

Her hair was like lighting
A small open fire
A flickering flame of contentment
Coloured of fierce protection

Her hair was of spirals
Neat ringlets of warmth
So delicate, so wild
So free


Her hair was but one feature
Of her loveliness.
But always was it
The first to be acknowledged


“Before I was a woman I was a tree, with branches that reached into eternities of endless trials and riches beyond mortal conception…”

Immortality is not a constant thrill, as many would have you believe. It is only constant in its stagnation, no manner of human trifles could ever make it less so. The goddess is content, however, with a relic stolen from her not-father’s kingdom; an equally endless creature that will remain as inconsistent as the beings her own kingdom bids entry. A nightmare of her own desires to bleed away the ever-flowing stream of the damned; as each one finds rest she will find release sweet as the fruit that brought her to being.

“And what of before, dear Melinoe? Did you exist at all?”

The meadow she keeps does not grow cold or wet around them, though their skin glistens with perspiration as legs intertwine and pale flesh becomes bright with warmth. A breath escapes parted lips and flutters cool against her lover’s bare skin, the procession of death forgotten for the brush of calloused fingers through sleek hair or whispered words of covetous delineation. The goddess enjoys most times of quiet perspicacity. To be lost in the understanding unique to chaotic inspiration.

“Why, I was a dying star in a reality to be filled with life and light after my own extinction. A single speck of cosmic grace unyielding and yet unsalvageable.”

These nights where two merged to become the total sum of connected expressions of interest, wicked and reckless and yet without replication, became more than brief appearances of shared desire. Sentiment seemed to tighten in each woman’s breast, a feeling so painfully warm as to sting when it sings to its partner for strength. A song of longing as bright as the eyes that search for recognition where none can be found.

“And what of me, lover?”

As they lay together in the meadow of Asphodel, the world weary at rest and the lilies of its name standing gracefully beside them, the goddess and her lover enjoy the quiet thrum of passion as it courses through their immortal hearts. A soft touch of care-worn hands against smooth skin as it prickles with gooseflesh, a tickle of hair as the tresses fall while lips part and press and prove unconditional adoration.

“You, love, have existed beside me through each passing.”

The stars are bright in the underworld, as they shine down on the dead and their deities. The grass of the meadow is soft under distracted ministrations, caresses from hand to hip to thigh and back again soothingly. A melody of mourning for those who enter her kingdom shifts eagerly into one of peace, the rhythmic hum distracting not a soul but the one that must know the song is for her.

“Will we love again?”

A warmth that clouds the mind does not afflict a goddess often, a feeling coveted by mortals and yet squandered time and again as they flash by the eyes of the gods. The goddess understands its importance, its implications, that the mad creature she loves is so much more. A complication, she had thought at first, but nothing they could not get past. She was so wrong, and she had never been so thankful for it.

“My dear Makaria, our love remains as eternal as all existence. Our meeting spans across millennia, across the very distance of time and space. We meet, and we love, and we return to do so again.”

There are words between the goddess and her nightmare shared confidently, their true meaning carefully carved into the space they come to occupy. The dead do not sleep, as the living do, and their keepers do not find rest often, but when the lover visits the goddess is convinced to dream of what may be next. Her lover knows dreams so intricately, knows her so intimately, that her chaos brings no madness to her goddess’ unconsciousness.

Do you promise, Melinoe?”

She knows she will forget her love. It is what the fates intended when they created such painful pleasures. She mourns already the love she will lose, for she will not know to mourn it at all if she cannot remember it has been lost to her. The lover laughs in the face of such fears, a brand of knowing that the goddess cannot fathom and yet believes whole-heartedly for if she does not, she fears it will not be true.

“Always, for you.”



Author’s Note: This is a work of prose poetry, and was actually published in the Deakin University Magazine Wordly‘s sub-edition ‘Haunted’. As you might assume, I’m quite proud, despite my own issues with this piece.

On another note, Happy birthday to my beautiful best friend Rae, who is turning 21 today!! Thank you for always supporting me and my writing. I love you, have an amazing day!!

A Life of Conflict (Draft)

Let the cool metal shift restlessly at your side

With sweating palms and shaky strides

The enemy takes no care for fear though

As it would disadvantage them

So let yourself be the only one to know


You’re alone now, out on the battlefield

Left to wonder if it was all real

As the men that once were your comrades now

No longer breathe or raise attack

But give their life, an unspoken vow


As you wait with the few that made it back to the trench

The cries of the stragglers make your fists clench

Taking life is not something that should come so easily

But it always leaves the question

“Am I next? Will it be me?”



Author’s Note: This was something I wrote a long time ago for an assignment, and I’m currently trying to rework it, but I wanted to share the original, for the sake of posterity, I suppose. As a write, I feel like perhaps I am growing, and though the re-draft may come to nothing, I’ll always have this first draft to remind me of where I started (This, I’m almost certain, was the first real poem I wrote).

The Pillow Fort

A little girl dreams of being a star.

A little boy dreams of her brightness.

They share their secrets under the blankets and amongst the pillows.


A young girl dreams of being okay.

A young boy dreams of the same.

The blankets are their sanctuary, the pillows keep their secrets.


Adolescence is kind to her, but only so much.

To him, she was always perfect.

She shares her sheets with someone new, but he still remembers their secrets.


Her eyes are sad and her skin is sallow.

He misses the way she used to smile.

She sits alone with rumpled sheets and stained pillows, he moves on.


She’s wasting away in the world of her dreams.

He hardly remembers her name.

Their secrets are long forgotten within the comforts of the couch cushions.


Her memory no longer causes him pain.

He shares with his own little girl

The secrets he swore he would keep under the cover of large blankets.


She lives again in the image of a child.

He adores her more than ever.

The pillow forts offer this vision

a safety he could never give his old heart.

AN: The image is not my own, though I did edit it after finding it on google. The original source, from what I can guess, can be found here.