Tommy Ballard
Bio
I'm a professional writer, a poet, a digital artist and an amateur musician. In my free time, I can often be found pondering magnets, breaking and entering random homes to steal locks of human hair and throwing car batteries into the ocean.
Stories (54/0)
Echoes Through a Silent Hall
If walls could talk, they'd tell tales of laughter and tears, of triumphs and fears, echoing within their halls without a hint of judgment. We stand tall as silent protectors, safeguarding against the elements, yet unable to defend against inner turmoil. Our stoic facade belies the weight of the events that unfold within our walls, where every action and emotion is sacred.
By Tommy Ballardabout a year ago in Horror
Isle of The Lost and Found
The fresh salt of sea air filled my lungs as the light of the midday sun penetrated my eyelids, turning the darkness red as it lit up my face. As I slowly opened my eyes I exhaled steadily, feeling myself become fully present in the moment and aware of my surroundings. Small waves danced and stretched over each other, generating their own white-noise lullaby. The turquoise water crashed gently onto the white, powdery sand beach, lapping at the surface beneath my feet before retracting back towards the seemingly infinite ocean that lay before me, boundless in its distance and its beauty. The calls of exotic birds punctuated the ambience, the kind of wild caws and howls that only seemed to develop in tropical paradises. I raised my arms up towards the sky, deeply stretching my body as if I were trying to grab the sun itself, feeling the sun-kissed warmth on my skin as I took another deep breath and felt a serene and true peace washing over me just like the waves below seemed to wash over this beach, purifying it with every pulse of water inwards and outwards, keeping the fine, white sand soft and pristine. Untouched. Perfect.
By Tommy Ballardabout a year ago in Fiction
The Ties That Bind.
The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. For so long, Abigail had found herself sneaking glances at her captor's window, her only method of keeping any form of track of time or the passing of days being to watch the beams of sunlight rising and falling, creating a thin, focused beam that slithered and passed through the minute translucent box, her only real reminder that there was more than this nightmare she found herself enduring.
By Tommy Ballardabout a year ago in Fiction
Time Doesn't Heal a Thing.
Time doesn't heal a thing. A million years can't pull a mind from a sling. These mental scars, they're are all too real, They've been picked at and played with, used as a ledge to which the broken and the narcissistic choose to cling,
By Tommy Ballardabout a year ago in Poets