Remember me when we’re old and gray, Remember me when youth’s gone away. Remember me when life’s moved on, When the night’s so cold a breath is shown, when there’s naught but ash and bone. Remember me when my limbs are dust and my lips are naught but mold. Remember me, and whom I once was, As my spirit pines and my love dies, withered as my form. Remember me as a forlorn cry, As I whisper across the skies, and the world moves along.
It all began in June. Detestable June, with its hot, sticky summer days where mosquitos whined just before they bit, siphoning valuable crimson whose thick viscosity was more than enough to sate them, leaving more than one insect drunk on the heady liquid once their victims had lapsed into an ill fortuned slumber on drowsy beaches with blinding white sand glistening in the late sunlight, while crystal blue waters, speaking of a tranquility and peace that only a simple minded tourist could possibly feel - for a native of the land would be more in tune with the doings of nature, and sense that not all was as sleepy as it seemed to the outside world on the surface - lapped thirstily at the shore, steadily dragging away those glistening grains which had been so painstakingly hauled in by the heads of the island, their own personal contribution to the effort to bring new life to the gradually decaying home they had known for their entire lives. Time had not been kind to the island, for
The wheelchair was an aging thing, with its sagging, cracked leather back and slumping, bowed in seat, the once shiny, glistening black etched over the handles now worn smooth and soft by the press of many hands over the course of time, the grooves meant for the fingers to grip the apparatus more easily rubbed down by this point in the object’s existence, while the large, sturdy wheels had begun to creak whenever the chair was pushed, nearly screeching in an ear splitting protest when there was a turn to be had. The thing was so old that it had no foot pedals, appearing as if it had been wrought without them, or, if it had by some miracle possessed such a luxury at the dawn of its creation, it no longer sported the seemingly small tools that made a wheelchair bound person’s life just a tad bit easier, for it was rather wearying to hold one’s feet up for an entire trip down a particularly long hall. This, coupled with the vaguely haggard appearance, made the elderly gentleman to whom it
The mansion was old, decrepit, with peeling white paint along the sides and graying stone framework around where an ornately worked front door had once stood proudly, golden colored trim in the windows winking out at passersby with a rather tacky tarnish, the glass itself, beautifully crafted stained glass in its prime, was now cracked and chipped, tattered by the many storms and years of neglect that it had suffered at both the hands of nature and those of mankind, whom seemed to have forgotten the building’s very existence, other than the neighbors, of course. The decaying shingles that were once a pristine black now revealed a faded tar coloration in the light of day, several pieces missing or torn away to showcase the roofing underneath, inviting the foul working of the recent rains to seep into the structure, so that it might rot from the inside, and thus, further contribute to its own destruction. Shutters, the light brown paint so peeled the plastic was nearly bare, clacked in
The clown was on the smaller side, not very large or eye catching, or even really appearing to be anything special. It colors were not the normal bright, gaudy hues that one would typically see on a sculpture of its type, its face was not overly painted with vibrant tones meant to draw childrens’ attention or winces from parents. No, for a clown, even a sculpture of one, it kept a rather bland presentation. The base color was white, with light blue overalls crafted over it, and a baggy white shirt painted in more of an eggshell saturation, while great brown shoes, accurately reflected in the sense that they were worn in appearance, with a crafted patch in one two, the stitches of such clearly visible, and an open point in the seam between cloth and sole of the shoe on the other, enclosed the feet, enabling the entire statue to stand. Pale yellow hair was slicked back to the sides, rather than streaming out in all directions as if the poor fellow had just put his finger in the light
The world grows cold as the leaves fall, bitten by the icy fingers of bitter frosts who’s emotionless edges callously leech away what little life remains in the brittle cellulose structures, once so bright and vibrant with the blush of life. The days fall short, the night inches long, while the quiet cloak of a snow begins to call. Birds bold enough to venture out in search of food warble with fragile voices who’s notes begin to falter and break when a hush descends upon a world which lingers with baited breath, watching as events unfold, none quite sure what to expect. Will it be blue, frozen as the glaciers that now roll their girth across the earth? Or will it be red, intense as the fiery inferno of the volcano whose eruption has come at long last to claim all in its path? Lines were drawn, divisions clear. In the pristine silence, it is difficult to catch, as side by side, all gives the illusion of calm, though through the while, behind an impenetrable mask of indifference, a
Just a Halloween loving, scatter brained writer trying to balance a hectic life between work, home responsibilities, and the ever demanding characters that race about my mind requiring their own unique stories.
Favourite Movies
The Lion King; Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron; Dumbo; Howl's Moving Castle; Spirited Away; Castle in the Sky; The Nightmare Before Christmas
Favourite TV Shows
ThunderCats (original); Black Cat (anime); Yona of the Dawn (anime); Transformers Energon; TMNT
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
Nickelback, Disturbed, Breaking Benjamin, Flo Rida, Fall Out Boy; P!nk
Favourite Books
The Outsiders; Legend of Drizzt series; Immortals Quartet; Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark; School for Good & Evil; Grimm Fairy Tales; The Lawman Series; Trail of a Gunfighter Series
Favourite Writers
R.A. Salvatore, Tamora Pierce, Lyle Brant, J.T. Edson, Ralph Compton, Edgar Allan Poe
Favourite Games
WolfQuest
Tools of the Trade
The intricate depths of my insanely twisted mind >:3
Once again, I'm so sorry that I'm responding so late! But no worries, I remember you, I love that manga, as it was very unique and had intriguing characters.
I'll definitely have to take a look in my spare time! If I can ever find any spare time, that is, lol.
No problem! Your story is quite interesting - and completely different from the norm. I love how it's out of the box, so to speak, and has its own personal flavor and style