The Territory of the Little People - Storm Clouds Approaching The atmosphere over Pine Creek churns before it breaks. The sky stops being a distant ceiling, and tears open into a fevered, gestural vortex, churning in fierce ribbons of cadmium gold, raw ember, and bruised ink. Here, in the suffocating stillness of the build-up, the heat plays violent tricks on my inner eye. As the squall gathers, the twisting ironwoods and fractured ridges don't feel empty; they crawl with the uncanny belief of the Little People, low-slung, watchful phantoms spun from wire, red dust, and dry static, waiting out the road's fragility. Every jagged branch and swirling filament of cloud becomes a face, an arm, a sinister presence breathing inside the rising storm, drawing the traveller deeper into the delirium of the interior. Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett , is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via Blogger , YouTube , Fl...
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Decent into the Valley Below
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Skipping through Dystopia on way to Utopia
A lone figure moves with an unsettling grace in the dim twilight of a decaying city, where the remnants of civilisation stand as silent witnesses to their demise. Each step taken amidst the desolation seems to mock the essence of existence as if moving forward is a futile rebellion against the oppressive weight of being. The air is thick with the stench of rust and decay, a tangible reminder of the absurdity that permeates this forsaken world.
As the figure advances, the surrounding gloom intensifies, the shadows growing longer and more oppressive. The skeletal remains of the old world loom ominously, their presence a stark reminder of the inescapable reality of existence. Yet, amidst this suffocating despair, there is a fleeting, almost imperceptible shift where the oppressive darkness gives way to a horizon bathed in a cold, indifferent light. The figure pauses, gazing back at the path traversed, a journey marked by the relentless confrontation with the absurdity of being. In this moment, there is no utopia, no redemption, only the stark, unyielding reality of existence and the solitary figure's acknowledgment of it.
Decent into the Valley Below
Walking down the winding graded paths with Finn by my side. I could feel the anticipation bubbling within me. The sun cast its warm light on the weathered stone walls, illuminating our way to the bustling city below. We were leaving behind the town we knew so well. But I felt a thrill in my heart. A promise of adventure. Waiting just ahead.
The sound of the river called to us like a distant heartbeat, urging us forward. I could already imagine the vibrant market and the new experiences that awaited us. With each step, the weight of the familiar lifted, and I realised we were stepping into the unknown, a world filled with endless possibilities. Our laughter echoed around us, blending with the sounds of the city as we embraced whatever came next.
A Self-Imposed Utopia
Amid an unending expanse, where the horizon dissolves into a nebulous void, we have become adrift among colossal structures suspended in the ether. These edifices, neither anchored to earth nor bound by gravity, loom with an oppressive grandeur, their foundations obscured by swirling mists. Each facade, a labyrinth of windows reflecting an infinite sky, confronts us with the absurdity of their existence—and ours.
In this boundless realm, time loses meaning. Moments stretch into eternity, and we are left to confront the void within and without. The weight of existence presses upon me, a relentless reminder of indifference as the future reveals itself. Yet, amidst the awe of delusion, we have a resolve to impose meaning upon the meaningless and assert our being against the encroaching nothingness.
The Highway and the Lost Soldier The midday sun around Adelaide River does something violent to the bitumen. At forty-five degrees, the Stuart Highway softens like melting fat; it turns into a black mirror, rippling with an unnatural, liquid glare that pools over every low rise. That is where it waits. He is always trudging south, away from life and deeper into the blistering furnace, his boots making no sound against the tar. The Highway and Lost Soldier Standing From two hundred yards out, he resembles a stranded traveler you’d pull over to save. He wears sun-bleached, disintegrating drill cotton that matches the bone-white dust of the termite country, his head angled down at an impossible, broken angle against the glare. No broad-brim hat. No swag. No water bottle. Just stiff, unnatural limbs jerking with every stride. “Driver... look at his face. We need to stop—why won't he turn around?” He is no lost tourist. Could he be the linesman from the Overland Telegraph days who tore ...
The Terminal Horizon Highway The Terminal Horizon Tourist Bus Would you catch the Terminal Horizon bus? Travel sketches by metamodernist artist JJFBbennett The Long Highway Out here, the world ends not in silence, but in fire. The asphalt bleeds into cracked red earth, stretching toward a bruised horizon where the sky refuses to cool. Behind the glass, you drive chasing ghosts through a desert that forgot rain a lifetime ago. Beneath the Scorch Every road leads deeper into the furnace. Even below the surface, the rock fissures and weeps, hot steam rising through subterranean fractures where molten veins pulse in the dark, feeding an ancient, unforgiving heat. Broken Arteries What we built couldn’t hold. Rails twist into the dunes, swallowed by iron sand and wind. Bridges split down the seam, concrete splintered into raw bone, tangled rebar, and dying wires crackling into the smoke. The machines stopped; the wasteland stayed. The Last Horizon And when the road finally runs out, the...
Incandescent - Ode to the Endless Scrub Beneath the vault of fallen light Where red dirt cools to iron stone The ancient country meets the night Unyielding, patient, and alone Cracked earth yields to twisted root To hardy bark and spinifex Where time leaves neither mark nor foot Nor petty boundaries to perplex Rank upon rank the pale trunks rise A silent host that drinks the dry Repetition stretching past the eyes To where the flat horizon lies Trees behind trees in quiet grace A labyrinth of slender wood Carving the stillness out of space Where centuries have stood Above, the sky ignites its coal A canopy of smoke and ember Holding the continent’s deep soul In dark and fiery surrender No hurried end, no measured shore Just red loam, shadow, branch, and tree The scrub that breathes forevermore Into the quiet of infinity. Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett , is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via Blogge...
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