frozen dreams lost

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

Submitted: October 20, 2012

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Submitted: October 20, 2012



The house

Day by year I’ve been standing hear, the forest in my wake, the sun has shined many a time, and sparkled upon the tainted lake, people have come and gone since a time before reality, when the sky was free from infection, the air pure, the forest young, a world of imagination, but never in my time have I seen a story so spellbinding, heart breaking and shaken as in 1784…


The Story Begins

The forest told me a whisper through the lush green trees; the promise renewed, faith restored, as he galloped through the breeze, in front of him future behind a blur of the past colliding with the present, his face skilfully masked, his hair tangled straggling in wisps, the man who made the promise, the promise that was forgotten. His name I do not know, but I know his laugh I know his cry I know he is the reason people with in me die.

The phantoms trickle in my walls, syrup in bread, they need not the use of doors now there dead, then they sense his presents, scatter scarce, for he is the man with the power to curse, and it was this day a moon lit night, that the spell was made in pure sight, he said to his love with a voice impure, your hearts are cold, incomplete your life does not exist, but when life cares I’ll replenish the world , but unto that day you will remain phantom listeners, but still undead.

When the sun appeared she loved him pure but he remembered the promise no more, he never came failed to appear that is why the forest hear, was exited when news of him had come, life had returned, love replenished, the world new, exiting, wonderful, pure. (But if you abhor depressing endings this is the end of the tale for you.)

Hear he comes he’s coming, he’s not dead he’s still alive, I herd them within yelling screaming, without voice, the whole world trapped, hopefully to be realest, by the man with out an impression. Disadvantage, hate and sadness struck the hearts of life and death, as he approached the moonlit door he once had left and smote upon it with a white-knuckled fist but no sole answered, it had been to long the curse fully enchanted it was the end the end of the world.

So the story ends upon this day the world no longer exists, the last speck of light was too long ago to remember, and now I tell this story not as the house that held dreams, but as a pile of ruins enclosed by a shrub. It’s the year of 2099 and I am finally departing to the land sky-scraping above.










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