Amisha Sadani 8CH

Prompt: Sandwich   Battery   Energetic   White   Hurried Drip. Drip. The ceiling spits down at me, disgusted. Mouldy floorboards creak under my stride, and wispy cobwebs cling onto my cheeks. A soft pattering fills my ears as I move closer and closer, squeaks and shuffles; the air filled with it’s curious cacophony. White. A flash by me in an instant, gone in a millisecond. Battery charged and energetic, a tiny menace hurried in it’s pace. An empty silence swallows the room, dragging it down into the depths of soundless doom. One step. Then another. Closer and closer still.... A mouse pops into view, teeth gnawing away at a stale sandwich .

Prompt: He waits. Shrouded by the folds of darkness that surround him, the chill of the early morning seeps through his robes, into his veins. He waits, as the groan of ancient redwoods fill the silent void, and branches bow low in it’s grandeur. A ghostly murmur carries over the treetops, afloat amongst the blue ocean above. Light spills through the slivers of the branches as he watches. A flicker, then a flame. A glowing orb of light sparks between his fingertips, as his hands play around its’ circumference, shaping and molding this beautiful menace, ‘till it launches itself into the sky.

Here is the link to my events in NZ history prezi for slide 4: Waka questions, Abel Tasman, James Cook and the British missionaries. https://prezi.com/view/kVymheBHifQSil6HKVhm/

Prompt: ...but where would we hide it all?... I scuttle through the streets, covered in grime from head to toe. A bundle in my arms bobs up and down with slight footfalls. Blood red and crisp in the night air, defiance rests in my shivering hands, juicy and sweet. How I long to take just one bite, to sink my teeth into it’s perfect skin. Street rats hurry behind me, innocent, helpless, silent and stealthy, unnoticed beneath the blanket of stars. But where would we hide it all? As we approach the decrepit building, a horrible feeling of guilt grabs hold of me, dragging me into the darkness.

Prompt: Shadows snatch at the light, tendrils lashing out into the cobbled street as they shuffle. Trailing feet behind their broken bodies, victims to the icy grip of death. Tinged blue against the endless night, their misted figures weave through the glowing streets, a wintry murmur in their wake. The glass in a shop window frosts over as the shadow’s tendrils reach out to claim it’s glow. One by one, the lights in the street flicker slowly, then die out as a swirling black mass surges above, devouring, consuming, thunderous roaring. All that’s left will forever remain; victims to the shadows.