Samples of work by Ally Stoyel


THE COLD FIRE                                                                                                  

Close your eyes. Let the colours of the world wash away like paint from a canvas. Let your limbs softly free themselves from their rigid state and lighten, like electricity is streaming from them. Surpass gravity in all of it’s forms. Float gently, free from the hardened earth. Now breathe.

You can’t always believe what they tell you, you know. That everything happens for a reason, that what goes around comes around, that it’s always darkest before the dawn. Because it’s a fucking lie.



The window pane glistens with the sweet droplets of the sky’s tears and frames the restless world outside as I watch it pass by. My skin tingles and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. A slight chill washes over me and I shiver, squeezing my eyes closed just a little tighter. I can feel it closing in on me. It’s a cancer that courses through my veins like venom and consumes me for a short while until I force my eyes to open and gaze absent-mindedly at the snow covered branches of the forest outside. Why do we do this to ourselves? Where do we get this destructive will, the morbid desire we have to tear everything apart? Why are we hell bent on destroying ourselves and everyone we see a part of ourselves in?


LETTER OF WAR                                                                                                  

It's been a year since the war ended, a year since the last gun was fired, a year since the last man was killed. But things are better now. The sound of the guns is almost gone but it lingers like the distant ringing of a persistent bell, constantly being rung to remind us of what happened here.