The Gift

A horror story for modern times More
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About David William Kirby

If we create our own reality then you will find mine within the words of my writing. If art reflects life then it should contain joy and grief, gain and loss, good and evil and all those hidden depths we sometimes feel shame by; those parts of ourselves usually hidden away far from public sight. Art is sometimes obscene, Art is sometimes confusing, obtuse and obscure but it must also be full of light and happiness, great insight or intrguing puzzles; it must show us a way to look at ourselves more fully and understand what we see with greater clarity.

Over the years and years of my life I have put to paper what has moved me, what has opened my eyes, what has shocked me to the very core and what it is to be me. I was a very lost soul for much of those dark days, months and years and tried to shine a light into the darkness with artifacts of oblivion; still today my consciousness drifts between the fluid and fixed, the focused and obscure. It is open like the books I have created, I am no Dickens or Shakesphere, I was virtually illiterate when I left, what was supposed to be, secondary education. But this did not stop the pen from scribbling, not making much sense at times, and over time (with careful editing) a careful line has been drawn from 15 to 59.

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