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14 January 2008 @ 08:58 pm
02 November 2007 @ 11:50 pm
02 November 2007 @ 05:19 pm
01 November 2007 @ 04:14 am
27 October 2007 @ 04:09 am
Thunderstorms
It was one of those nights, those stormy chaotic nights where one hears things on the wind: thunder, a whisper in the rattle of trees, a scream of something carried on the air for miles. For years. The storm the lungs of ghosts too long dead or insubstantial to speak themselves.
A tree limb rat-a-tats on the panes of the window and inside by the fire you imagine what must be out there, lurking in the gloom. The moon is gone, you cannot see. For all that you know, beyond your lawn, beyond your gates, there is a world living in the swirling leaves and the crack of thunder.
For a moment, a fork of lightning illuminates the sky and everything dark and skirting light ducks from a watchful eye at the window.
A flash and nothing more.
Once lightless again, fingers curl around tree trunks and where you cannot see, in the darkest point of shade, the ghosts sway and the ben sídhe howl, unheard over the storm.
Inside there is a thump in the attic, a squeal of old wheels. Footsteps on the dusty staircase that stop again and again at the landing. No oil for the lamps, everyone is asleep in bed. Rattles the lock of a trunk on an old suitcase from India and the figures on the wall, the paintings, watch every twitch made.
A rage, a lull and the drips in the leaky roof keep a metronome to the chorus of the dark.
You'll have a wonderful story if you make it through the night.
It was one of those nights, those stormy chaotic nights where one hears things on the wind: thunder, a whisper in the rattle of trees, a scream of something carried on the air for miles. For years. The storm the lungs of ghosts too long dead or insubstantial to speak themselves.
A tree limb rat-a-tats on the panes of the window and inside by the fire you imagine what must be out there, lurking in the gloom. The moon is gone, you cannot see. For all that you know, beyond your lawn, beyond your gates, there is a world living in the swirling leaves and the crack of thunder.
For a moment, a fork of lightning illuminates the sky and everything dark and skirting light ducks from a watchful eye at the window.
A flash and nothing more.
Once lightless again, fingers curl around tree trunks and where you cannot see, in the darkest point of shade, the ghosts sway and the ben sídhe howl, unheard over the storm.
Inside there is a thump in the attic, a squeal of old wheels. Footsteps on the dusty staircase that stop again and again at the landing. No oil for the lamps, everyone is asleep in bed. Rattles the lock of a trunk on an old suitcase from India and the figures on the wall, the paintings, watch every twitch made.
A rage, a lull and the drips in the leaky roof keep a metronome to the chorus of the dark.
You'll have a wonderful story if you make it through the night.
05 October 2007 @ 08:03 pm
05 October 2007 @ 05:02 am