What can I say about this? Australia is going down a path of prejudice, racism, xenophobia, cultural hate, religious intolerance and yes, arrogance and ignorance. And sadly it’s been down this path before, hopefully the country remembers how ugly this path is and turns around.
As I was moved onwards, prodded by the scientists that ran the “treatments”, I soon began to realise I might never leave this place the same. The ward’s floor that I walked over was littered with an emptying, sagging skeleton of flesh, covered in boils and bloodied sores. An outline was etched into the stone around him, but the physician that stooped over this examination seemed more interested in the disease that grew on the flaking skin that had separated from this body and rested on the cement. I stared down at the corpse, utterly horrified at this infection that killed him, but as I stared into those sullen sockets that held his eyes, the blank stare looked at me, and I at once knew that this skeleton was still alive biologically, but mentally he was defeated. I turned and glanced at the doctor that was directing me to my bed, searching for clarification. But he pointed forward instead, thinking I was just lost. The dying skeleton continued to stare, but it wasn’t searching for help, it wasn’t wanting to be saved and it wasn’t waiting to die, it just existed while the physician around him outlined the death zone as the infection was left untreated.
We turned a corner, and the sight and smell ripped into my core. The floor was covered by various bodies, lying on the ground by choice or force. Some were skeletons, others struggled from the straps that bound them, some slept and the last lot were boils and blood seeping onto the cold stone floor, filling up the etches with whatever blood had escaped from the empty sacks of flesh.
In the beds that rested around the walls were the skeletons that also bucked about; withering, fiddling, shaking. Some men shared these beds, a puss-filled meat sack with an otherwise grit and coughing “healthy” patient. Other skeletons slept or died alone, staring out at the doctors injecting them. Eyes followed me, a couple of pupils seemed to be full of pity, but most were empty like the meat on their bones. There was no hope in this ward. My ignorant eyes were being filled with the same stark knowledge that every other patient had witnessed here, and I felt the glaze grow stronger as that distinct void poured into the depths of my sight, creating an emptiness that could never be washed out.
It was at this point that I realised why some beds were being shared. The infection was being spread from one patient to the other. There were also skeletons strapped to their coffin sized beds, and the ones merely dying of malnutrition were being injected by a physician, or boils being rubbed into their bedsores, the last having scraps of bloodied skin fed into their limp jaws.
Silence in this ward is what struck me the most, the utter silence as the doctors methodically moved between their corpses making sure each one was sick, while they noted the effects, looking for any changes or variations. An occasional muttering to the patients could be heard, that the “syphilis” would soon clear if they were superior enough, and if not it was the skeleton’s own fault. There was no crying, there was no pleading, I heard nothing of protest, nor the sound of the denial that the reaper was in the walls waiting for them.
My doctor continued to prod me forward, as I was still in the wrong ward. I knew this because my skin was of a different colour. I was not dark enough for this section. I was male, like all of the patients, but I knew what the real difference was from them to me, and it wasn’t skin deep.
The door to the next section opened. There were cages. Cages of women. If my eyes weren’t empty, they were now. Nothing more can be said, but I was ready to lie down like the skeletons before me.
The gloves covering the doctors hands gripped my shoulders and pushed me onwards. A man with a clipboard stood at my ward. He tapped down the list of suspected homosexuals. I was one of the defected males, broken on the inside with a perverse soul, utterly devoid of humanity. I stared at the other monsters like me on this ward, they to had been injected with something for their bodies had convoluted and revolted against their original state. My doctor said that I was to be injected with a chemical that burned and turned my insides, twisting the muscles, punishing me for my sins, correcting the mistakes. I was a monster, I saw that now, like the other monsters in the room before me. I was learning my role in society, I had fled from the pure path, and fell down to the pathetic types that fluttered throughout history.
I realised just how inferior I was in life, I was just like every other monster here, from those locked up in this ward, to the humans running this hospital, to the ones outside these walls that lead to this moment, where ignorance and intolerance bred this infection that now spreads across this country. What monsters we all are.
I was walking down the street today, and in front of me were these two awkward tweens (lets assume they were siblings, I did). So, the street path soon narrowed, and in front is a group of rough-looking teenagers walking towards us. The courtesy is that one side moves to the other so everyone can get through. Alas one punk in his demin and ripped flannel looked towards the to tweens and came to a stop.
The tweens awkwardly tried to move to the side, but the punk buffed himself up, and stared down at the tweens (at this point I should inject to say that this punk was like a fourteen year old shorty, who came across thinking he was top-shit). I kept walking forward when this was happening, everyone else was coming to a pause… and then I just told the punk to rack off (among a less pleasant description of his personality). His eyes widened, he stepped aside, unsure of what happened, but in a split second he realised that his unchallenged bullying was acknowledged and mocked.
He called out to his mates, trying to make himself look like a big guy and save some composure, but I was already walking onwards. I was completely indifferent to his existence, if anything, showed disdain and boredom. He had no taunts, just tried to get his mates to come to his side, but they stayed silent. And it made me realise something… I’m an adult.
Goodbye to the teenage years. Hello, superiority complex …though, I’m still glad I said something.
Time to party! …or something. Knocked this out in a bit over an hour, so while I’m not too thrilled with the shoulders/body, I am happy with the colouring/shading and time it took. woot. Another mask pic. Must be stuck in a theme.
Swirling within the sunbaked dunes you spot a trail of footsteps that one might suspect runs forever along this never-ending shoreline. You follow silently, with an apprehensive whet upon your inner cheeks. At various stages these curious footprints sway, occasionally being swept under the waves that slither up upon land. Your feet strike these watery snakes, eager to find this individual that seems to be horizontally challenged. The prints gobbled up by the invading waves will never be found… Yet you have hope that the story will continue, and sure enough, above the shore and over the infant dunes, hiding amongst the diverse, empty and abandoned shells are some fortunate indents waiting and jumping ahead to tell their story.
The voiceless dialogue hints to a hurried, possibly worried, rushed figure heading inland across the bare land of sand. Soon they smudge themselves, as if their owner has fallen forward upon its stomach, maybe from pain, maybe from hopeless, quite possibly maybe they had run out of breath, struggling, wheezing or worse. Time cannot be determined from these informative yet cryptic prints. They hide the key truths, as if to mock you and the subject. These soles remain endlessly quiet. You wait, knowing that they waited. Sooner or later the feet move on. Sooner rather than later you move on.
North-West it goes. Leaping or slouching onto mud infested paths. This covering wet dirt tries to turn you away, just like its past victim, who seemed to have slipped and slid, distorting the indented and natural shape they should have held on. Such pain, such disfiguration… it must be insufferable.
The clouds are grim, the birds are fleeing for they seem to know the answer you were once curious about. You wonder if the dirt and pain is worth it, to find the horror that befell this poor soul. Quickly the feet swerve left… into that grouchy couple’s garden. Daisies trodden over, pulled from their cozy dirty homes. What kind of monster would wish this destruction upon this beautiful environment for their own sadistic enjoyment? Would you? Would I?
The feet seem to have scatteredly stomped across the path that leads to the couple’s backdoor. You wonder if you should dare peek and find the intruder. You don’t think it is worth it, but those prints itch for a scratched satisfaction. You reach the porch with its rickety wooden floors. Hmm, they need buffing. But the curtains remain shut over the windows. One’s thoughts could rush to the monstrous events that are happening inside but to witness these are impossible at the moment. You look down, noticing the prints having diverted for the sidetrack down the porch, where these filthy horrible smudges disappear into thin air.
Whose are they, and will the outcome be alright? The grouchy couple hasn’t been seen for days.
You might never have known the secrets, except suddenly the heartening truth leaps out at you with full force, their weapons bare for all to see, their fresh kill still in their clenched weapon. With her freshly killed daisies limp in her jaw, she leaps, the paws still muddy. It’s their bloody dog!
Stupid mutt.
*oh, an update. eeek. I had this floating around back in November and thought I’d post it since it’s an attempt at second person narrative, and the context is prety easy to follow. So still hiatus/end, just a couple of straggler posts that got the better of me.*
The blog is on Hiatus/Done.
You can pick which, I don’t care. :-)
No, don’t be so vain, the blog ending isn’t about you.
I noticed that after the mask challenge, I did a mask/man drawing, and after the tree challenge I did a tree/man drawing… lol, clearly I get caught up in themes. The Tree man has been a creation I’ve worked on since my high school days, and every once in while I do another updated version. You’d have seen two previous ones of him in older posts. I went with a different view (his back), I thought it’d shake it up a little, and it helps give him some helplessness/dettachment. And because his face can’t be seen, I guess it uses the idea that less is more. I was happy with the end result, I feel like I’m finally making some strides after having such a difficult time drawing (realistic-ish-sorta) people. So yay. The was some minor inspiration of a religious figure, a sorta crown around his head… :-p
Well, while the person who issued it couldn’t be bothered participating or interacting with the end results in the challenge I intitiated before starting theirs, I did end up doing their challenge too. I guess I’m a doormat or something.
I don’t like mine, it’s a bit cliche, and the weakest out of the three, but I’ll still post it.
There was a picture I wanted to do for the mask challenge, didn’t have the pictures to do it. So I drew it. I tried to contrast some masculinity and femininity (well throw it arond), which is hopefully seen with the female-ish mask (red lips), the purple toga-like thang, vs it being a ripped guy. Also the pose being anti-masculine in a stereotypical way. Anyway just some ramblings from me.
There is also The Christmas Angel story a couple posts down… some feedback would be… kind.
