stories from the end of days

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
thing i wrote- hope its good
PS i largely wrote this while listening to music and recommend that while you read you listen too

Submitted: March 08, 2017

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Submitted: March 08, 2017



Stories from the end of days


A wolf walks silently in the white moonlight, against a back drop of snowy trees and mountains black as night. white light fills the land with shadows, causing the wolf to come in and out of vision while padding through the frozen landscape. In a forested land so cold the air seems to freeze, the only thing that moves is a solitary creature. it walks, motiveless, towards an inexistent goal. Pacing in a land of grey. The creature had been moving tirelessly for many days and nights, for it was stubborn and brave, but alone.

Wind flowed through trees covered in snow and ice, its movements making sounds like whispers flowing endlessly across a land so cold even souls could freeze. Fire was a lost cause, its warmth consumed by the wind, leaving the only sight to be dark mountains in the distance, lit up by the pale moon. Icy gusts blew from black peaks which sprung up like knives from a dark land covered in trees and snow. Very little moves in the land, apart from the rustling of the trees which never halts. it was silent, silence prevails.

If you stood on the ground, first, you would freeze; but then you look around yourself, you sense something, you’re not sure what but you feel like this is a place that many may have died. So you search, search for the red eyes which you guess will quickly be springing up behind the trees, listening, listening for the rustle of leaves as merciless bodies paced around your now very vulnerable life, you might smell something. if you can still smell at all. something possibly rotten or maybe just wild. But as you move your head, taking in the surroundings, looking toward your immanent attacker. heart pounding and fists flexing. wishing for strength to fight or run as your blood rushes through your body and your eyes swivel round, looking desperately for a sign. Something! Anything! All you hear are whispers on the wind and see the pale moonlight of a distant moon. Around you is only darkness which stretches away in every direction. You are an island in the sea of black, the moment of colour in the grey expanse which stretches onwards.  from tree to tree, mountain to mountain, snowflake to snowflake; all there is, is you. Standing, draped in silence and fear, heart pounding, blood rushing, eyes moving, looking for what will never come. This is the wolf that moves onwards, in the land where you may cry.

 Mighty in statue and power; The wolf, wandered endlessly through a silent forest. The creature was one of the ones that was lucky enough and strong enough, in their prime, to survive things that had killed most, but the wolf was brave and it had fought. Scrabbling and biting against the night that consumed all, screaming and snarling to the black, defying any other thought or emotion, ignoring pain and loss and turmoil and the bleak times; till against all odds, death had given up, and the dark had retreated behind the cold white light of the moon. For even the brightest fires burn out, and leave only the Cold.

still not giving up to the night, not content to simply let its story and memories fade to the dirt, for it still carried those that had been left, and it could not let those be lost. With final strength, it stood on its quick legs, that had supported it for so long for a final journey. It would not be a long one but the Wolf still strived, moving its powerful body onwards, onwards to the black. Highlighted only by pale moonlight which brought shadows to life and destroyed the hope that darkness brings. For better or worse the world turns from black to grey.

But the thing was alone. whatever thoughts were once in its mind; now had been lost to the dark sea of despair that consumes those that are left. The dead rest, but survivors have the burden of living on without those that had been lost, doomed to drift on, through the empty passage of their lives, dreaming of those that were gone or those that they knew they would never find again.

 Memory’s once good, now only existed as bleak fragments, speckled with feelings of sorrow, and anger. A primal anger that made the eyes red and the teeth sharp. An anger which killed, and would stop at nothing to do it, even if every other sense wished for an end. A mind which should have melted away under the pressure instead cooled to hard iron under the moonlight.

Fire, fire surrounds all memories beyond those cold unwavering eyes. Only fire and death clouds the relocation of the great wolf. A charge, a last stand from the night echoes like thunder in the mind, the power of the masses that fight for everything they can. A charge into the night, against bright eyes surrounded by shade. A land filled with so much fury that the ground burned as the power of the forest was unleashed, through claws and teeth against shadows which sliced and killed in the night.

But some things cannot be beaten through those that fight together against a greater foe. most often the underdogs are not successful and those that charge are the first to burn. Bravery, the doom of the young and the tool of the wise.  

 some always survive the fights that consume and the great white wolf burned with a passion and anger that destroyed, killing without mercy. Fire burnt the night, and the dead lay with only one the mourn. One to search, through the empty as snow covers the red and rivers wash away fires.  One to live on as the greatest enemy becomes the voice within a head. The voice which pries behind your eyes, the voice that is the single greatest enemy anyone can face. A persuasion which is given more power than ever in the silence, providing the only way to end the deafening quiet. The deafening quiet and silence which fills the brain, making eyes bloodshot and ways out numerous and inviting.

So the wolf went on, alone, after all that had once been where now gone, lost to only memory and the whispers on the wind. But none truly die till the ripples in the world they create drift away, till the memory of them becomes lost or forgotten to the merciless winds of time. So the wolf carried on, making sure that those it had once cared for lived on in the memory’s it clung to on every cold, moon lit night. when the silence became too much. Till you realise that a peaceful, still forest, is simply one that had died a long time ago but was taking its time to give in. The ancient forest was much like the wolf in that sense, both had been hit by the darkness, and both were now still and empty, only one still moved and searched for something more.

And so it was that the last wolf that lived in a still forest, stopped its journey, stopped after so much time, stopped to lift its head and howl into the night, howl and scream into the silence that surrounded it at all times, howl into the bleak dark night and howl to the moon, that looked down on it; howl into dark that had destroyed it life, but would not claim its end. The wolf was resistant and its voice carried the power of those that it had kept alive in its memory, howling with the power of all those that had been lost and forgotten, screaming into the night which had claimed all but one.

 The wolf was defiant, and when its voice finally gave out after an eternity, it slumped down where it lay and listened. listening to the memory of those that it had left, as their voices drifted on throughout the land, going on forever, being carried with the wind and all of those that were alone but defiant, all those that had survived, survived for nothing but the search for meaning. 

And that was where the great white wolf stayed, waiting, waiting for a chance at a life, clinging to some faint idea of hope in the dark. of Some white light in the constant darkness that fills the vison of those that are left, a constant hope that persists, in spite of whatever carnage, or lose or regret, or pity or death that happens in life. there will always be a faint spot somewhere, behind blank eyes that still looks on into the world, wondering what is around every corner. even when everything else screams, that the answer is always the same. There will always be some hope that a survivor will, cling, to, even when everything else falls away, when all other parts of a life drifts, there will always be one voice saying

’ look on, look on into the night, look past the cold that surrounds you and the pain that moulds you. shout, howl, scream! scream into the bleak moonlight.  Fight, fight till the fire leaves your eyes and the emptiness inside you burns. But never, never give in to that bleak moonlight’

The wolf raised its head, stopped, its old eyes taking in the unmoving snow and trees that surrounds all and snarled. It bared it’s still bright teeth and shone its long claws into the night, its muscles tightened and its fur stood on end.  A single solitary statue, with no one to see or care for or about; standing ready to fight any way, looking into every shadow with eyes shining red with a fury that never ends. IT charged into the night. One final act of defiance against an uncaring backdrop of black mountains, white snow and dead trees which grow tall. IT charged into the moonlight, and it ran into the night, and it howled into the fire that burns behind the eyes.

The question is not if there is a point in fury at nothing at all, in struggling at inexistent forces which see not, for life will always be merciless and uncaring. Uncaring in the way that a fire cares not for what it burns, merciless in the way that time is the eventual end for everything good or bad. Memories burn away and lives become pointless to the passage of time, but that does not mean you should give up. Even when everything else is gone, you still remain, and there you shall remain, for yourself. The struggle will eventually only mater to yourself. Fight on, but never give in to that bleak moonlight.

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