Griffen Helm
Bio
Griffen Helm; Writer of Things.
Fair Warning my work can be pretty violent, rude, lewd, and explicit; including themes of depression suicide, etc.
Stories (34/0)
Reconciliation?
On the subject of colonizer/ settler responsibility and the broad emotional spectrum that is white guilt. It honestly feels like we should just return Saskatchewan westwards. I know for a fact that we will not be doing so, but it is still nice to dream of a world where indigenous peoples can only get shortchanged for half of the land they originally owned.
By Griffen Helm2 years ago in Humans
Magi
Low rumbling; soft heat. Growing louder building up. I fire, life ends. -- My arm jolts, ozone collects within the filters of my suit’s helmet; from the barrel of my Fulgor Carbine, a pulsating ball of plasma explodes, carried forward by a small magnetic charge.
By Griffen Helm2 years ago in Fiction
Nature's Thorn
Living close to to a mountainside, I was always exposed to nature. Beautiful rolling hills, densely packed with brush and trees; Snaked with long, well-trodden trails. The air is crisp and refreshing, especially in the winter months. Typically children with this sort of upbringing should feel an unburdened connection to nature, punctuated by a particular flower or spot within this natural domain. Of course, this is not the case, as seen with the use of “typically” at the beginning of this paragraph.
By Griffen Helm3 years ago in Wander
Beneath
There’s a man who lives beneath the streets. People say you can’t be sure about such things, but I am, I know he’s there. And it must be the streets, it must be, there’s just nowhere else to hide. No secret places, no escape from the village of Greendale. Quaint two-story houses, with useless empty backyards; corner shops with abhorrent prices; sprawling flat fields, filled with ankle-high grass. Nothing else to use but the streets. I can see him, twisting under the manhole covers and mashing through the slender pipes beneath, to reach into our lives. No need to creep in the night or slink past the residents of Greendale during the day. He watches us, always.
By Griffen Helm3 years ago in Horror
The Triangle of the St. Anne Marie
1964, Boston Harbor, Alexander Hayes. The St. Anne Marie is an antiquated beast; I approached the ship in dock, the presence it layed over the surrounding area was palpable. Although the smokestacks ended a fair few feet before the other ships, it imposed itself on the surrounding vessels and seemed to ride higher atop the water. The hull of the ship bristled with dents and scratches, which shone through the dull black protective coating. Strangely the damage made it shine in an almost divine way. The accommodating cabins and bridge seemed ripped straight from ancient Greece, or the southern equivalent; Wide pillars and soft white marble encapsulating a hewn wooden building. A veritable plantation house on the sea.
By Griffen Helm3 years ago in Criminal
Unbound
Snowflakes twinkled in the soft morning light, drifting slowly through the air. Not to land on the concrete sidewalks, nor the muddied patches of grass that adorned them; instead, they found their resting place on a small black leather-bound notebook. Countless students, walking through the back neighbourhoods on their way to university, passed over, on and around the book. Not a single one determined it to be of any worth and simply continued along their predestined path towards their schooling.
By Griffen Helm3 years ago in Humans
Embracing the cave
I was resting on an old chair in a warm room, my coat a blanket and my arms a pillow. An unfortunate coffee, drunk during a time of hunger, kept me from true sleep. Locked into a partial awareness, I could not fall into my unconscious mind. Instead I remained in a stasis of perception, where no fantasies should have reached me and where I would have no true reprieve from the fatigue that had begun to plague me.
By Griffen Helm3 years ago in Poets