Celious Blanc
Bio
a poet since birth
running in the wind
head in the stars
soul in my eyes
a contradiction of emotion
an abstract perception
an involuntary whisper
a shadow in the light.
@celiousblanc
Stories (24/0)
Little Miss Independent
Grade one; first day of school. The chattering of nervous parents echoes around the courtyard, children with oversized hats and checked uniforms hold onto their parent's hands and giggle nervously, wondering what is in store for them that day. A teacher with short fuzzy brown hair and sun-damaged skin blows a whistle and yells across the sea of Our Lady of the Angel's newcomers,
By Celious Blanc2 years ago in Journal
Questionable Intentions
The musty room creeps up into Clayton’s nostrils as light seeps in through the half-opened curtain in the crappy room he’s been holed up in for the last three weeks. He coughs lightly as he opens his allergen-irritated eyes and then lets out three heaving sneezes as he sits up in the four-poster ‘luxury framed’ bed that feels no closer to luxury than the dodgy antique salesman his Grandfather had no doubt bought it from.
By Celious Blanc3 years ago in Horror
The Bay
I woke to the sound of whistling. The wind was swirling ominously that night; like it was brewing something scandalous. It reminded me of what I imagined demons sounding like when they laughed. A chill shot up my spine and I shuddered. I pulled the shroud that I was lying on around me. It was summer, but the night air was cool, and the creepy wind wasn’t helping me regulate my body temperature. I reached next to me for the lantern I had placed there and fumbled around for the matchbox. I struck the match. The flame grew. It swelled largely as it was struck, and behind the flame, I could have sworn I saw something scampering across the ground. A sudden movement. I lit the lantern and closed the latch. The room grew with light as I moved it around, and I stood up from the ground, crunching bits of dirt under my feet as I did so. I could still taste rum on the insides of my mouth and on the sides of my lips as I licked them. The back of my throat was dry as sandpaper. Perhaps a night of solitude ‘away from the town’ wasn’t such a great idea after all. What was that saying, again? You can leave the town but you can’t leave the problem? Or something like that.
By Celious Blanc3 years ago in Horror
"Hold Your Own" she said...
When I write poetry it is like an unconscious spiel of emotion, of thought, of... everything. Some writers have an endless list of other writers who inspire them. While I’m sure I do have this in my subconscious somewhere, I never really consciously acknowledge who they were or why they inspired me. Not really, not truly. I mean, of course there are the classics; Shakespeare, Bronte, Joyce, Austin; but nobody ever really spoke to me. Not until I first heard the poetry, the spoken word, of Kate Tempest.
By Celious Blanc4 years ago in Poets
