Mah Stories and poetry (I think Saphire would like this)
Tell me what you think:
A l t a d a r k
See those mountains? The dark one. The one in back. There. That's it. That's where they live. Running invisible, too far to hide, screaming laughter as the blood trickles down the chalk cliffs to swirl into the stream below. Pine needles underfoot, darkness overhead, running, always running, always the crimson wet blood dripping, dripping, down . . .
We walk slowly up the hill, over red clay and white quartz and pine needles touched with green. Sunlight from far above, whispering through the green to touch and tickle our noses, make lights in his golden-brown hair.
What was that? Not a squirrel, not a bluejay - too big, too small, too silent. Laughing from the shadows, running too hard to hide, invisible hands clutching crimson-tipped spears, while the blood drips down the white chalk cliffs . . .
He knows it, comes to stand in my view, his dark eyes searching mine. What's wrong? But there's nothing, nothing, just my imagination, nothing but the echoes of blood on the rocks, the silence of laughter inside my head . . .
Are you sure? No, no, I'm not sure at all, they're coming, they're coming, I can feel the blood dripping, trickling down the white chalk cliffs where I used to slide, down, down, down . . .
And I see his eyes, the sun making gold of his hair, he is asking, speaking, I cannot longer hear, blackness, shadows, and always the blood, dripping down . . .
Tell me what you think:
A l t a d a r k
See those mountains? The dark one. The one in back. There. That's it. That's where they live. Running invisible, too far to hide, screaming laughter as the blood trickles down the chalk cliffs to swirl into the stream below. Pine needles underfoot, darkness overhead, running, always running, always the crimson wet blood dripping, dripping, down . . .
We walk slowly up the hill, over red clay and white quartz and pine needles touched with green. Sunlight from far above, whispering through the green to touch and tickle our noses, make lights in his golden-brown hair.
What was that? Not a squirrel, not a bluejay - too big, too small, too silent. Laughing from the shadows, running too hard to hide, invisible hands clutching crimson-tipped spears, while the blood drips down the white chalk cliffs . . .
He knows it, comes to stand in my view, his dark eyes searching mine. What's wrong? But there's nothing, nothing, just my imagination, nothing but the echoes of blood on the rocks, the silence of laughter inside my head . . .
Are you sure? No, no, I'm not sure at all, they're coming, they're coming, I can feel the blood dripping, trickling down the white chalk cliffs where I used to slide, down, down, down . . .
And I see his eyes, the sun making gold of his hair, he is asking, speaking, I cannot longer hear, blackness, shadows, and always the blood, dripping down . . .
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