Monday, 27 February 2012

Scarred But Still Standing - A Poem

"Scarred But Still Standing" has pretty much become a motto for me. It's a way of saying, "Yes, I've suffered, but I'm still here. I haven't given up. I'm still alive, against all odds!".

Twisting, writhing rage
Burns like acid through it's veins,
And a stabbing agony in it's heart,
Gets worse each passing day.

Ev'ry insult taken,
Stings deep down inside.
Ev'ry kick or punch,
Brings bitter tears to its' eyes.

Born in cold October,
Destroyed, age 13 onwards.
Reborn five years later,
As a heartless, damaged monster.

Black becomes it's symbol,
'Evil' – an adopted name.
Never forgetting those who caused
Such thoughtless, searing pain.

But Time has healed much,
A new Era can begin.
I can smile once again:
“Scarred, but still standing.”

© Copyright Cory Eadson, 2012

Dark Things 1 - A Poem

Just a little work-in-progress...Let me know what you think. Always after critique!

Dark Things 1

Lying on a bed of black roses,
Arms crossed,
And pennies over my eyes,
I wait.
Wait for the pumpkin sun
To fade behind the skull moon.

Shadows grow longer
(Like the ones inside my mind)
And stretch to nothing -
Swallowed, eventually,
By the impenetrable darkness.

The Darkness, my one true friend -
Hiding, in that fathomless black,
All manner of secrets,
All manner of Things.
Things that creep around my bed,
Lurk in my closet,
Writhe in the furthest recesses of my mind...

Maybe They know
That we are the same.
Maybe They sense
That I am unafraid.

An abrupt stinging pain in my heart
Suddenly grows more fierce -
Like a talon squeezing
All the life out of me,
And In my agony, I am forced to wonder:
Do They want me to join them?

Copyright: Cory Eadson, 2012

How I Became a Doctor Who Fan: An Autobiographical Account of a Huge Obsession, Part 1

I was shrouded in darkness. The closed blinds forbade any form of natural light to creep into the room, preserving the atmosphere which I found so important: that of excitement, intrigue, and mystery. My hands graced the silky soft quilt I was perched upon, a fabric of pure perfection that assured maximum comfort on the sprawling double-bed.
 Listening intently for a moment through the yellowed wall (discoloured from the endless late-night cigarettes Grandma smoked), I could faintly hear the living room television. Yes, Grandmother was out of the way. I had her wonderful bedroom to myself. It was my domain now.
 I glanced around in awe at the clutter on top of the wardrobes; the drawers which were so crammed full of interesting junk they couldn't close properly; the cupboards crammed with ancient ornaments and fob watches. I knew that most of the stuff was useless, tit and tat purchased by Granddad on endless visits to those car boot sales he loved so much. But I often wondered where all those items originally came from, what secrets lurked behind each and every one of them (and, perhaps the biggest mystery of all, what Granddad had actually wanted them for in the first place!).
 One of my hands wandered towards a tall cup on the bedside table, filled to the brim with Grandma's own special brew of strong, sweet tea. As I sipped and sipped and eventually gulped, like an alcoholic draining his first beer of the day, I allowed the boiling hot liquid to ease its' way down my throat (and could still feel it as it swirled down towards my stomach, refusing to die away) – an unrelenting mix of fire and sugar which seemed to fulfil something more than just a mere quenching of the thirst, as if I were experiencing a sixth sense above and beyond that of taste. In a matter of seconds, the cup was empty, and I replaced it on the plastic mat, directly on the tea-stained ring at its' centre. The cup's own little throne.
 It was after this satisfying burst of nourishment that I decided to divert my attention toward the reason I was in Grandma's darkened room in the first place. Perched awkwardly at the end of the bed was a collection of videos, in a tidy little box-set, that an Uncle had leant me earlier in the day. He obviously (wrongly) assumed I was into science fiction, as the tapes were all from an old show called 'Doctor Who'. I'd heard of it, of course. Everybody knew the hilarious 'knock, knock...' joke, for instance. But sci-fi just wasn't my thing. I was a child of horror, it had always been the way. Of course, polite as ever, I'd taken the videos from my Uncle with a smile and a “Thanks, Uncle Peter, can't wait to watch 'em!”, and Grandma had allowed me to watch them alone in her bedroom.
“Just shout if you want another cuppa!” she'd called shortly after making me my eighth cup of tea within the last hour.
And so here I was. I assumed it would be a case of watching one episode, pretending I'd viewed them all (so as not to offend my Uncle), and then go out into the sunshine to play. Taking the first video of the set, titled 'Genesis of the Daleks', out of its' case, I shoved it into the huge mechanical monster that was Grandma's VCR player, which devoured the tape hungrily and noisily. I then switched on the equally enormous square television, before folding back onto the bed to watch, I expected, just one single episode. In just a matter of seconds, unbeknownst to me, the seeds of a colossal, almost insane, obsession, were to be sown.

I could not have been more unprepared for the experience I was about to endure... 


Copyright: Cory Eadson, 2012

50 Reasons Why 'Time Crash' Is The Most Perfect 8 Minutes of 'Doctor Who' Ever

#4 David Tennant IS the Doctor! Tennant is clearly having a blast in this mini-story, especially considering Peter Davison was his childhood Doctor. The speech at the very end, which the Tenth Doctor delivers to the Fifth, was said to have been a direct tribute from Tennant to Peter Davison, only just staying on the right side of the Fourth wall! 


This is BlogWatch, a new feature in which I'll be encouraging followers to follow other blogs of infinite awesomeness!

The first installment is going to bring to your attention the works of a very talented mother & daughter combo, who each have their own individual tastes and styles.

Bernadette Davies (@bernadette70) is a close Twitter friend of mine, who shares with me a penchant for all things dark and eerie. Her poetry deals with such themes as death, loneliness, fear of the unknown, and the unpredictability of human nature. Her short prose pieces also deal with similar topics, and a personal favourite, 'Like a Mouse in a Maze', has been included for your pleasure below, with kind permission from Bernadette herself. Her blog also features competitions, and amusing and interesting facts and pieces about the goings-on in her life! The blog can be viewed here: Bernadette Davies, and I recommend you follow immediately! 

Like a mouse in a maze (by Bernadette Davies)

The city had been home to generations for hundreds of years. Compact and walled, she was considered impenetrable to anyone from the outside. But for the thousands within her walls, just as hard to get out.  Based at the foot of the Tempie mountain, she was a city that appeared to have been forgotten in time.  You would easily have been mistaken if you thought her to have being originally built by a lost Mayan civilisation or perhaps even the Romans. As the city grew in population, so too did the buildings with height to accommodate them.  And for all the citizens that called her home there appeared to be no need to go anywhere else for this city offered everything you could ever need. Amenities, entertainment, beautiful homes.  It had it all.

I don't recall how it was that I was living there, nor why it was that it was being guarded by soldiers speaking German and dressed in black uniforms with medals and stars on their breast pockets and fancy black peaked caps on their heads. I don't know why I knew that we were in imminent danger, nor why the guards were keeping it a secret from everyone, nor why they were preventing anyone from leaving. More frustrating, why all its citizens where going about their daily business, oblivious and careless.  I kept preaching imminent doom, but nobody was listening.

Tempie was rumbling.  I could see the smoke and if you stopped for a second, you would be able to smell the acid and hear the groaning.  All my alarm bells were screaming and panic was setting in.  Yet everyone continued about their business.  My mouth seemed to be sewn shut, because like the guards, I couldn't utter a word.  My eyes were stretched wide in a silent scream and as I dashed up one set of stairs and down another set of endless stairs, I appeared to be running around in circles.  I couldn't find my way out.  And every time I thought I'd found a way, I ran into a guard.  They didn't speak to me, but I somehow knew to try to get past them would be suicidal, so I turned back and sought another way.

Night fell on the city and the sound of people drinking and socialising filled the streets.  The bars and taverns filled and music could be heard from the concert halls.  It was a happy atmosphere all around me, but I knew that it was to be short lived. I knew that everyone was going to die, yet I still didn't raise the alarm. I wasn't able to and I was terrified I would only draw attention to myself.  By now, the main objective seemed to be to get myself out. To live.

The walls of the city stretched high up into the sky. They could easily have been 300 ft high. It had been billed as the safest city in the world and one couldn't help but look at those walls and know that no enemy was ever going to get over them.  What it offered though was a false sense of security because I needed to get out and now all I felt was trapped.  Like a mouse in a maze I kept running, only to be met by either another wall or another guard.

And then I saw it.  A ladder that stretched up all the way to the top.  I started to climb it, higher and higher I went and as I climbed I prayed that nobody would see me.  I kept waiting to hear the scream of a guard shouting for me to stop.  Someone to take a shot at me maybe? But this didn't happen.  Eventually, at the top I reached a trapdoor and opening it, pulled myself inside.  It was a surveillance room.  A German guard sat in front of a bank of computer, studying the going's-on within the city.  He turned to look at me as I stood up straight but only smiled at me.  This left me completely confused.  Why wasn't he reacting?  Why didn't he shout for help? Why didn't he reach for his gun?  I stood motionless in the middle of this room and watched as another guard walked in from an adjoining room.  He too smiled at me and in German started conversing with the one at the computers.  I could not understand what he was saying but somehow I knew that they were talking about me.  My eyes flashed to the windows in this room and I ran over to the window facing outside and for the first time in years, caught a glimpse of the world outside the walls.  It was nothing but jungle. Way, way down below.

Then the second German guard turned to me and said. "It is too late.  You cannot leave." More damning was not his words, but the look on his face.  Like he understood my fear but knew there was nothing to be done and that he had accepted this fate. This is the thought that went through my head as I absorbed his words.  And then I heard and felt it:  The creaking of something in the process of snapping, the whoosh of something flying through the air and the rumbling under my feet .  I ran to the opposite wall and looked out of the window into the city and saw that it had started.   Where buildings had once been ablaze with lights, now they were ablaze with fire. Where people had been laughing and singing, now there was only screaming.  I watched for a few more seconds as more fire reigned down on the city and then with tears in my eyes I turned back to the guard.  He stretched his arm out, pointing to the window as if inviting me to try to escape but said nothing. I ran once more to the far window, peering out, but there was nothing there but a 300 foot drop on that side and I stood motionless, looking out the window contemplating which way I was going to choose to die. 
 Alycia Bezuidenhout (@Alycia_Bee) is the second blogger I would like to draw your attention to. Daughter to Bernadette, Alycia's blog is beautifully presented, with a wide range of material, from music videos to some splendid drawings by Alycia herself! She includes diary-like extracts on her blog, too, that are very amusing and fun to read, giving a rare insight into the life of a 17 year-old girl! 
       What brought her to my attention, though, was her first piece of poetry, published very recently on her blog. Titled First Heartbreak, the poem deals with the familiar theme of teenage romance, and all the joys and heartbreak that entails. What really struck me about the poem, more than anything else, iss the length. This isn't a mere two-stanza poem, this is a story, with a beginning, middle, and end. It's mature, well thought-out, and highly emotional. For a debut poem, it's wonderful, and one can only hope that Alycia develops her skills and produces more material! I'm sure, under the guidance of her mother, she will soon become a creative force to be reckoned with! Her gorgeous blog can be found here:, and with her kind permission, her debut poem can be seen below:

First Heartbreak (by Alycia Bezuidenhout)

An innocent crush,
the girl has everything.
Smart, pretty, loved.
It’s never enough.
Shy first kisses, an explosive infatuation.
She’s dizzy with ecstasy.
Her Romeo in a leather jacket; blonde shaggy hair and fiery hot eyes that burns passion she has never known.
            He loves me.
It’s overwhelming joy, white sweet bliss.
But sweetheart, you are blind.
She is in too deep now, an unhealthy obsession is born.
Forgetting her friends, abusing her family,
she worships him.
Its unconditional lust,
irrational love.
15 years old,
but you know it all don’t you?
            The lyrics speak our lives baby.
Cue the first fight, the crushing first heartbreak.
Bed ridden, did he hurt you sweetheart?
You had it all, how could he?
            I love you baby, never again.
Ignorance is the purest of bliss.
An all consuming perfection, like
a drug, it imprisons your mind.
Spinning out of control, it’s impossible to leave.

Another lie,
another fight; is that another heartache?
This time she’s the villain in this twisted, predictable play.
The floodlights bare your soul hunny, but it is shut from the world.
No one understands, do they?
He’s created a monster, oh how he hurt you so.
Her heart bleeds desperation, wild insecurities.
Her eyes burn jealousy, the ugliest of sins.
Sly tactics, another soul-shattering revelation.
Screaming now, she can’t breath.
A violent heave down the strangers toilet, hold you hair back sweetheart,
it isn’t over yet.
Self-destructive fantasies, 16 and through with life.
Stupid girl.
Another sham anniversary,
another meaningless kiss.
Just another empty promise. 
            It hurts so much.
Here comes the inevitable breakdown,
the cracks have burst wide open now.
She begged him this time, pleaded and prayed.
Such anger, unimaginable rage.
            Why is he doing this?!
It’s unfathomable.
So here it comes, the final showdown.
She’s finally had enough.
His eyes slam cold, he’s unreachable.
Your Romeo Romeo has turned his back.
Baby, you’re utterly alone now.

An ultimate heartbreak, the gut-retching pain.
Hold on to yourself sweetheart,
there is no going back now.
Her hands are slippery with desperation,
A phone call, all hope holds its breath.
Ring Ring. Ring Ring.
            Mommy? Help me.

And with loyal arms,
she is pulled from the fire.
Gasping the first breath she has had in a year.
Celebration is in the air,
a sweet tangible victory!
Their daughter has returned, a family reunited.
There’s a broken heart to mend,
but a full recovery is promised.
She was wrong and she is sorry.
But of course she is forgiven.
She is stronger, she is wiser.

I am ready.