S R Gurney
Bio
25.
Graduate. Author. Director.
Inspirer to noone.
Compulsive Hypochondriac.
Elusive Dreamer.
Thought Hallucinator.
Stories (27)
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The Utopian Void
10.30am – The Oakhill I drive my silent vehicle into Sycamore Lane looking out for the grounds of number 31 – The Oakhill. A Live-in Home where one of my closest friend’s Mr. R Lester resides. I have known him since I was a boy, and it is all true that he is ostentatious, egregious, pious, hot-willing, inordinate, garish and bizarre. He is entirely complex and has always shown as much, tossing ten pence to the pound to flow beyond the limits of a dreams reach. Which leaps fourth with its fingertips onto something magnanimous and imprudent. Hence his adorned title: Mr. Lavish. It seems odd and ridiculous to pay so much attention to this fact, that at all times it seemed even he was tender of his anxiousness, as to precede the thought which takes an individual from and not to the place one needs to be. The Dreaming Trinket.
By S R Gurney5 years ago in Horror
My Best Friend Mr. Sidney Darcy
Of all the moments I can deem meaningful, there are so few that compare to befriending Mr Sidney Darcy. We were born two years and one month apart, and for most of our lives (to his stylish disdain) we have looked like twins, my mother confusing our mop-top haircuts and lanky statures. Although I'm unsure if that was her lack of attentiveness, or us sharing similar looks, regardless it was never a circumstance for shame. In fact, I indulged in the idea of sharing a look. In retrospect, I already had two older brothers, the primary of which my mother named Matthew, passing away just hours after birth. The other, Ross, the first living heir to my father's surname, and it is he we do not speak about, being a traitor to the bonds of blood. And even with these facts being so, Sidney Darcy is the brother I consider to be more than family, he is my souls home.
By S R Gurney5 years ago in Humans
11:00am – The Rose Path
I look out over the garden seeing beautiful shrubs and trees and flowers, which grow amply and look healthy and vibrant. I take a sip from my tea, and it is pleasant enough, the light I see is both clear and bright and I can see it illuminate the faces of the people around the garden, talking and looking and living. That’s the power of the mind, to delude even ourselves that we aren’t always living, because we as a condition of having this very thought; incite those moments which are memorable aside those which are forgettable. And in this balance comes fourth the design of storytelling, as if only to break the eighth wall. Where it is in our natural tongue to convey, discuss, express and argue, continuously, but it is this very mundane endurance of repetition, year-in-year-out, which causes these moments to become petite.
By S R Gurney5 years ago in Humans
10.30am – The Oakhill
I drive my silent vehicle into Sycamore Lane looking out for the grounds of number 31 – The Oakhill. A Live-in Home where one of my closest friend’s Mr. R Lester resides. I have known him since I was a boy, and it is all true that he is ostentatious, egregious, pious, hot-willing, inordinate, garish and bizarre. He is entirely complex and has always shown as much, tossing ten pence to the pound to flow beyond the limits of a dreams reach. Which leaps fourth with its fingertips onto something magnanimous and imprudent. Hence his adorned title: Mr. Lavish. It seems odd and ridiculous to pay so much attention to this fact, that at all times it seemed even he was tender of his anxiousness, as to precede the thought which takes an individual from and not to the place one needs to be. The Dreaming Trinket.
By S R Gurney5 years ago in Humans
Anchor
I awake seven am in a haze of last week’s blur, with typical thoughts thereupon my mind: work, the unsavory taste in my mouth and the last words of my grandmother, Irene Eva Bingwall. While my mind adjusts to a stable consciousness, my eyes open thereof, and I hear her words echo through spaces between my thoughts, as they have done for as long as my heart has given vessel and my brain has given capacity. We had a deep kinship, from a very young age, that I should imagine, and in many senses, expect, that I shall not experience the likes of which through any intensity or veracity ever again. I was young when she passed, but knew, as she explained from time to time as to have been blessed to have filled her life with all that she could have ever wanted it to be so occupied, which depleted me of worry over her. I, being nine and a half, was by the soft warmth of her when she left our physical occupancy, and as my mind begun to fill of thoughts and questions in her final moments, the sun peaked through the shutter blinds and took my attention with ease as it directed my eyes away from my life and the morning of her departure. Then the moment dawned over me and held me under the brim of a still but unbreathable sufficiency of water. We had arrived at the day of her leaving. Irene had opted for a personal sending off package, which I'm pretty sure meant dying in her own home, but I would think that one with respect for themselves would also choose this route, for it gives both dignity and elegance space upon a private dance floor for a waltz.
By S R Gurney5 years ago in Humans
Narrow Thicket Tales: Mr sparks & Nina Wa
A moody Autumn came tumbling over Mr Sparks, the only fox of Narrow Thicket. Whom beheld himself a loyal and dependable friend, and looked rather dashing and handsome as he, twisting his body from side-to-side, checked for stray-greys through a deep orange fur like a Western Tennessee Sunset.
By S R Gurney5 years ago in Humans
