Welcome. Anonymous Author holds a mirror to the face of humanity, asking what it really means to be human,

and in doing so blurs the line between what is good and bad writing.

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Wednesday, April 27, 2011


It was rain-dark. Silverbeet coloured trees which were neither silver nor red shrouded the slick roads. He walked too fast, bouncing off strangers. Mist permeated their angry, sibilant voices with coldness and the white noise of tires on wet asphalt became ugly. He would have welcomed the punch in the face – it was the threat of the punch that caused more damage. Peering back every few steps, through the inkiness, he felt sick. We want to see the colour of your fear, they'd told him. Well, this was it; a boy tearing through blackness, all his light absorbed.