I'm a 19 year old man living in London, currently on a gap year for economic reasons, intending to study Geography at University next September. My interest in global events and politics is a recent development, but I believe I can provide thought provoking and insightful narratives to others with similar interests. I have been writing short stories for a few years, finding world building and using language to create layers of meaning.
I could continute, but it would be a waste of time. These are the main issues I care about, and will likely discuss them the most in this blog.
I
He lay back and scanned her pale body. It was coated in a faint film of sweat causing her flesh to glisten. She twirled around the room opening the windows whilst singing to the birds in the gardens below.
It was a peculiar song. A blend of melancholy and euphoria. The raised fist of the father, the gentle touch of the mother. Red river of the battle, the blood of the womb. The brutality of killing, the violence of sex. She smiled at him as a tear crept down her flushed cheek.
II
The road was uneven and hard, courtesy of the summer sun. A sole horse and rider plodded along it. The horse was a palomino, it's coat shining gold. The rider wore tight hide trousers bearing intricate stitching. His shirt was grubby and made from simple linen which he wore open at the neck exposing his chest. His black unwashed hair was tied in a bunch behind his head.
The two brigands hugged the bank tight as they waited for the rider to get close. One was bald and rather gross, the other rugged and built. They both gripped the handles of the blades fastened to their belts.
"Hurry up you daft cunt, ain't got all day," muttered the bald man, figdeting in his restlessness. The rugged man laughed but his eyes remained fixed on the rider. He had been thieving and mugging as long as he could remember. In all that time he had never seen a man travel the highway with such disregard for his safety.
He carried no visible weapons nor did he make an effort to hide his wealth. Saddlebags hung open showcasing bottles of bright liquid and coin purses a plenty. Enough to pique the interest of any lowlife scoundrel.
"Silent now, here he comes," the rugged man slid over the bank with fluidity. The bald man struggled to his feet and with surprising speed followed his example. They both drew their swords.
The riders eyes glanced up at the sky, he judged the time to be at the turn of five. With a panicked neigh he felt his horse rear throwing him onto the floor hard. His eyes were blurry with tears and he struggled to