Member Feature Mondays

Hello, Dear Horde, and welcome to our weekly instalment of Member Feature Mondays!

Each and every Monday, we here at Apocalypse-writing will be posting features of five of our illustrious members, as well as the occasional member interview; both in the spirit of community, and the hope it will help bring our members that little bit closer together. Aaaaand maybe a smidge of shameless promotion too.

This weeks features are alockwood2, PandoradPanic24, webkinzagirl, coatnoise and moonlight-Aria.



- Joined December 12, 2011.

Paul, One Eye, No LegsHis hands ached,
His shoulders too.
He had to turn his head,
In order to see on his left side.
He had to turn his head to the right,
In order to hear what was said on that side.
He had to sit in a chair,
That had a motor and wheels,
As he had no legs to walk with.
However he always had a smile on his face,
And a laugh that was infectious.
He had one eye,
But he has seen more than I ever will.
He had no legs,
But he has traveled more than I ever will.
That was Paul,
And he is my friend,
And I can't tell anyone,
How much I miss him. I'm Still MeAutism; to my mother, the word was like the Judge's gavel pronouncing Sentence on a condemned man. To her mind, autism brought up images of people who sat in wheelchairs, drooling, staring out windows all day, in some hospital room, with no chance of living a "typical" life.
"No, it can't be that," she said. "My son can speak his own mind, and walk, and talk, and-"
"Miss M, I'm sorry," the doctor said, shaking his head.
My mother took a look at me, noticing that my nose was stuck in a 300 paged book, and chuckling at what the characters were doing at the moment. To the untrained eye, the average person would think that I wasn't paying attention, but I was. As if noticing her, I dog-eared the page and closed the book. Then I looked at her and said four words, "Mom, I'm still me."
Those four words are probably the truest things I've ever said. I was twelve years old when I was diagnosed with Aspergers' Syndrome, a high functioning form of Autism. Basically, what that means is, I can do m Killing Time at the MallI hear the unearthly moans,
Howling in my ear they do.
I can see them,
Slowly shuffling towards me.
Oh why did that old woman open the door,
And let them all come in?
I've seen what they do to you,
They bite and chew and rip you to pieces.
They won't just die,
Like living men,
With a shot through the heart,
Or a knife between the ribs.
No, it must be to the brain.
You must shoot them in the head,
Or decapitate them,
Or even just bash them in.
Luckily, we're in a rather large mall,
And there are weapons everywhere.
Maybe I'll use this Louisville Slugger,
And knock them out of the park.
Maybe I'll use this fireman's ax,
And chop them like cordwood.
Or maybe I'll use this hunting rifle,
And bag my limit of undead.
In any case,
There's nothing like killing time at the mall,
Especially when the dead are rising,
And you've got three days to kill.

- Joined January 22, 2012.

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- Joined May 8, 2012.

The SpotlightWithout a shadow to hide in,
Without the darkness to shroud you,
How is the spotlight?
The unrelenting, blinding light?
You know they are watching,
Waiting.
Staring. Glaring.
How is the spotlight?
Where your every flaw,
Highlighted,
In relief.
How is the spotlight?
Alone and solo,
And you must speak,
Scream.
How is the spotlight?
All attention on you, knowing
Someone, everyone, is
Listening to what you say,
Knowing
You are
No longer
Invisible. HelplessnessHave you ever been
Entirely, completely
Lost and had your fire
Put out and had no
Light to guide your
Ever darkening path to
Sadness and
Sorrow?
Night comes and stays,
Ever growing,
Sowing seeds of
Shadow.
Until you're completely full of
HELPLESSNESS MilitaryI wear my Nation's colors to honor his fight,
Knowing few are aware to my family's plight.
Father's gone, overseas a few thousand miles,
But we paint our faces with proud smiles.
Father's never here, always there,
Even home, we're too distanced - am I still his Sarah Bear?
I want my daddy home with my sisters and I,
Those words never leave my lips - only a supply of a supportive lie.
We await his return, not having seen him a year or two,
How time flies when you're not sure how much missing you should do.
What is there to truely miss,
When I've forgotten my own father's kiss.
Mother is patient, never lets on,
How sad she must be with Father Dear gone.
My elder sister helps around our many different homes,
Through the country our family ever roams.
We say goodbye to this house, and every friend we've known,
The sorrow of goodbyes no longer cuts to the bone.
I've near forgotten what it felt like to be sad,
After leaving so much, the pain only scratches the surface a tad.
A new home, a ne

- Joined August 10, 2012.

Princess of DollsThe Princess of Dolls had an itch. Just under the right breast, against the rib cage, the little crevice that always sweats first when the upper body is tightly wrapped in close fitting, tailored garments. Not that, right now, she could do anything about it. She could roll her shoulders a little, feel the layers of fabric slide up and down slightly against her perspiring skin, but given the tightness of the binding holding her arms securely behind her back then scratching the itch herself seemed a little out of the question.
Behind her mask the question hovered on her lips, as she licked a slim tongue between the labia oris it turned over in her mind. A little help? But she couldn't. Not here, not now.
Here being the Chamber of Representatives at the Parliament of the Stellar Union, a modest three-thousand seat auditorium on the outskits of Jupiter. Now being legally, literally, ceremonially, her own investiture.
It was both a complex series of events and a matter of complete chance th :thumb304959928: QuestionsGroncil was beginning to question the destruction of the settlement.
The unfamiliar structures had appeared on the northern wolds two intervals ago and, since the rules of agriculture were very explicit on unlicensed obstructions in the workplace, an armed clergy had been sent out the previous night to remove them. This morning there was unlicensed debris in the workplace, smoke drifting from the low ruins, mingling with the clearing mists. Groncil sighed, and returned to tending his crops.
The unknown, the unlicensed, was instinctively considered a threat in his culture. The immutable rules didn't offer scope to accomodate it. In his position as a root-herd it was hardly Groncil's place to question the rules, and yet his observations of the settlement before today hadn't identified anything that might pose a threat.
Small creatures had emerged from it, whenever he'd been some distance away but still close enough to watch, and walked or flown around aimlessly as insects might. They see

- Joined March 23, 2014.

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Make sure to join us next Monday to see more of our apocalyptic members.

Don’t forget, if you would like to volunteer to be a willing victim ..... err, I mean the subject of our Member Interview, check out the group questionnaire and send your answers to us in a note.


Until next time, Dear Horde.