Blake Smith is a student and aspiring author in Australia. Their work is influenced by their political leanings, trauma, and reading nonsense online. Who's isn't though? Did y'all see that orange with the limbs and the face? Terrifying :/
My Halloween Playlist
Monster Mash – Boris Pickett & the Crypt Keepers This is a MUST for every Halloween. Without this song, is it really October? Start Halloween off right with a classic Monster Mash.
Names have been changed for privacy reasons, but all events are true. Sometimes I catch myself thinking about the best friend from my co-dependent friendship that dominated my adolescence.
The Problem With True Crime
True crime is a fascinating subject that draws in people from all over the world. There’s a dark curiosity about what murders or robberies happened in an area close by. What famous criminals walked the streets you shop on? Is old Mrs Patterson really the sweet lady she seems, or is she an uncaught mastermind of a thief? What makes a person kill?
Home is Where the Food is
When a beast knows it can be loved it changes It stops growling and tries to purr The course hair turns into soft fur It rubs against you for your attention
My mother loves peaches. She always said they were the sweetest fruit. She thought they were cute, with fuzzy, pink skin. She said that peaches kept her skin looking youthful and dewy. She called my baby sister “Little Peach” so often that she responded to that more than her own name. She had the skin that wouldn’t tan, and the hair that curled into ringlets easily. She was bubbly and bright; a sweetheart of sorts. I was heavier than my sister, I had spots and moles, and there was something about the way I spoke that made people sneer at me. I was always being told to watch my mouth, but I could never see my lips. She called me “Little Pear”.
Under The Ice
David didn’t come home. He got almost all the way. The snowfall was heavy and had made him late. It swirled around the car that shouldn’t have been on the roads. It sat there as if David would never leave it. He didn’t get to see the fireplace that had settled into crackling in the background to warm the house, or smell the soup simmering on the stove. Patrick saw him through the window. His red hair was a bright spot in the frozen winter around him. His black suit stood out in the blanket of snow and he was still clutching his briefcase in his shaking hand. He loosened his tie. Despite the warmth of the room, Patrick felt a cold chill run down his neck. He normally didn’t loosen his tie until he walked into the house. He stopped next to the pond.
Partridge lifted the wine glass to her lips at an angle that betrayed how drunk she already was. The cheap red threatened to spill past the edge of the glass and over her new white shirt and old grey couch. Annabella watched.
War of the Clowns
The sugar-rushed children were running through their parents’ legs, racing to the games and rides to the left of the amusement park. The games were buzzing and ringing to celebrate the people who had lost their money in the middle, and beside them the smell of sugary, salty food wafted through the whole park. On the right, all the bigger rides—the rollercoasters and flipping boats—were pouring their machinal and organic screams. Throughout it all, the clowns were going to war.