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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

The second time I use a dream as an inspirational source. This time, about 70% of the story is just about I have witnessed it, give or take the lack of proper words to express certain aspects.


Shadows soar across the thicket, quick, without a sound.

Branches sway and rumble faster, whispering longer as pace quickens and footprints grow deeper in moldy leaves.

Heartbeat and foot-thunder, rush of panic and mind in control.

Moonlight drops upon jewels in the ground, catching eye of bound traveler, igniting the spark.

Throwed upon the stone, to them the magic answers, a statue, his now friend, motionless and bound.

Long swirls jumble from behind the marked path, patient staring around.

The pigmy idol lying about got severed of his nose, but there is no cry.

Dawn is bound to break, and the night ends fruitless.


There is a single, short nock, in the wooden door.

“Who’s there out at this late hour?”, grabbing a lamp.

Behold, her eyes are bright, and her hair silk dark. Her face is pale and her lips tight shut.

He cannot speak for his head is blank. He snaps out and forwards a weary hand:

“What happened? Do you want to get caught?”

Smiling, her thin hand grasps and holds tight. The lamp flickers and she flicks just as much, her face shifts and draws, but he closes in, blind.

Turned around, now he follows on her back, sweeps past cloth and upbreast the hands cross and clasp.

Her scent is strong? Mild? Soothing, slow, steady, alien, too much.

His blond strands are rough, unpolished, bland, bowed down.

Their bodies fret, vibrate, flex, seemingly break, and lock.

One hand against her neck, one dancing, flailing, wild.

They tremble, jump, and crash, and the room grows cold.

She smiles, and goes.

The lamp still drips and the oil still flows, and now it burns.

White, bone-dry, from a shriveling husk, his eyes go out last.


There is a single knock, in the wooden door.

“Who might’ve that be?”, he grabs a lamp.

Behold, her eyes are bright, and gold rests upon her head. Her face is aflare, and small lips smile shut.

Submitted: March 20, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Kog. All rights reserved.

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