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STERRRNNNN!!!!!
Join Date: Jun 2009
I am currently:  
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a story i wrote about a dream i had
I thought it was pretty cool-I often have recurring dreams and this was the second one of these dreams (this one i actually recited a part from Moby Dick even though I hadn't read the book in more then 10 years
Our story takes place-in the cobblestone streets of the 1800's England. But this is not where our character of notice lives-in the hustle and bustle of a Charles Dickens novel, no she lives in the countryside, in the vast rolling hills of some unknown, unnamed town. Such is an appropriate setting. Here the noise of the city fades away and the starlight goes undisturbed. Here is where the young Marie sits at her window, oblivious to the burn of destruction and Armageddon so near. She heard the voice ask her “do you wish a time in the garden dear?”.This voice-thought-to have come from her doll, her one true friend. It seemed so convincing, dear Marie. So out she ran, fallowing the siren calls in her little mind. Her blood flowed like the Thames River, as thought spoken before. She crossed the bridge, with the sign that said “Do not cross” and her doll was gone-and her exit covered by trees and a thousand years of stone. Before her stood the angel of death, scythe in hand-her time had come... but mine did not. And I awoke, in a daze, not in my home but in a gloom, a haze of dreams and ill thoughts. I wandered the streets, hearing, yet again, the siren's call-no it was not me, but her. It was merely a dream-or perhaps I was merely the dream.
Then I found the hated thing, sitting on the 17th floor of the crimson stone building. Fire and death rained around me, and the very floor turned to a lava beneath my melting feet. Did the thing remain still, no it turned to a hellish fish and bore its fangs deep into my chest. Screaming in an agony never felt by any creature-man or beast, it tore into me, and I tore into it. A spurting gout of blood came forth and my raw hatred poured threw my veins into my knife, carrying down every ill word and feeling from generations known and unknown to me. It was an awful sight. There I cried out; To the last, I grapple with thee; from hell's heart, I stab at thee; for hate's sake, I spit my last breath at thee. The haze surrounded me again, and I felt the cold chill of a winter's curse upon my damp brow. The wounds from the great creature were merely old scars upon my stretched out flesh, a sad reminder to a cold dream. I am a cold figure, shivering in the moonlight of an unknown dreamworld, a haze of death, a gloom of fire and burning coals. It is like an oven, and I am a frozen creature-locked into an eternal pose-frozen, yet burning alive. All this, happened in an instant, without an instant, without a single bloom from a tree, a single sunrise, no moment though it felt like every second from our unknown beginnings multiplied by some unknown number, thrown against me in some fiendish ploy for reaction. A way a puppeteer mocks the human form with marionettes. No matter, they are unimportant, much like me in this pseudo-dreamworld, or Marie in her unknown realm of existence-who is the real one in all this? I am real because I stand before you, she is not because she is merely spoken of, in a large lament, a tale of the past and odd places? The hated thing mocks me even with its mere mention of existence, if my heart was the key to destroying it once and for all, I would bore it like a cannon bores its great fire upon the battlefield. A fire and scream carrying behind it- it would be its end, long and forgotten, in that I leave you to your daily thoughts, all of them, not mine-however, those are my own...
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