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  #21  
Old 10-30-2010, 07:06 PM
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Baxter'smybaby Baxter'smybaby is offline
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BRAVO to you both! I am so impressed by people who can write.
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  #22  
Old 10-30-2010, 10:38 PM
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That's very kind of you Bax. I just looked at that creepy picture and wrote. I think anyone can write if they sort of let loose of his/her feelings (or imagine someone else's feelings) and just put those into words that describe them best.

I think Renee's story is wonderful. I felt like I was right there, lost in that fog with that feeling of desperation she describes so well. Her writing is very vivid and really involves the reader as if he/she is part of the story, I think. Well done Renee!

I wish some other people would take a stab at it. It's a fun thread. Just write anything that the picture inspires in you...a very creepy, haunting picture. I love it! Perfect for Halloween.
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"When the people fear their government, there is tyranny; when the government fears the people, there is liberty."

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  #23  
Old 10-31-2010, 08:32 AM
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Here is Hyia's

THe Black Evil Horse

It was 1982 in Western Virginia. Halloween day, Princess Fona was getting on her costume when Lily her Mom called her down to tell her today was Halloween day but she also told her about the curse of Virginia.

THe curse was if you see a black horse you will die under neath the horse and rider in your ghostly dreams.

About Princess Fona, SHe has curly brown hair, black fingernail polish, and a white long sleeve shirt. She loves fairy tails, mysteries, novels, and of course, the Adams Family. She really really likes that.

SHe next went out side and got ready for Trick or treating. She then got kidnapped by the ghostly figure and he killed her in real life not just in her dreams. .SHe is still a princess but now a princess ghost, and no longer a zombie princess trick or treater. The end.
-------------------------------------------
SHe said she got caught up in the story and I told her that Renee would be pleased. Now I will read your stories and poems to her.
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Side by side on the sofa sat three annoyed dogs and one smug cat
and then in came a little white kitten,
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  #24  
Old 10-31-2010, 08:50 AM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Renee750il View Post
Gripping all three leashes tightly in one hand, I unhooked the maglite from my
waistband, twisted it on and shone a broad beam out into the milky mists, looking for a
break in the fog, something that would let me get my directional bearings, something,
anything recognizable in the landscape of phantasms that surrounded us. Nothing
looked real. The light splattered against the fog and bounced back.

The dogs stiffened and their hackles rose at the same instant as mine. I cursed my own
foolishness under my breath, worried more that something might happen to them
through my folly and foul mood than about myself. I was still angry -- truthfully, angrier
than ever, at the fog, at the asshole I***700;d thrown out of my house -- finally -- at my boss
who was letting his paranoid wife ruin my job, at myself for not walking away from it all,
at the only man who ever “got” me for being afraid to be happy, at everyone and
everything that had ever thwarted me, cheated me or broken my heart, and at myself for
getting us into this mess -- whatever it was.

“Take us back to the car.” I trusted my dogs***700; sense of direction. Mine was completely
confounded.

They looked at me and whined softly.

“C***700;mon, let***700;s go home!” My voice came out a hoarse whisper. “Please . . . let***700;s go,” I
repeated and joggled the leashes in entreaty.

All three sniffed the air, then the ground and moved forward tentatively. I followed,
tethered to them, hanging onto their leashes as the fog parted reluctantly around us. We
swam through a viscous pool of silvery, shimmering veils. Anywhere I shone my light
turned to a wall. It made me claustrophobic. My imagination began to take over. We
were prisoned in a saining pool. If I looked up, I would see the outlines of a face
looming, looking down, seeking a vision.

Shuddering, I tried to rein in my imagination before it took off to places I did not want to
go.

The dogs and I all stopped.

We held our breath to listen.

The smallest -- well, she***700;s fifty-five pounds of muscle and moxy -- reared up and threw
her head back and shrieked out her battle cry. I***700;d never heard the banshee -- The Ban-
Sidhe -- but that long, wailing scream had to come through the DNA from her Blue Paul
ancestors just as surely as my own . . . well, feyness, runs in mine. The swirling fog
stilled. It glittered. It glowed. It thinned.

That scream pierced the waiting silence again and I moved to hush my dog, but she
was sitting quietly. They were all quiet. Waiting. Ready, on edge, quivering with
something -- not fear, more than anticipation. I braced myself and hung onto the leads,
praying that the dogs would stay silent and whatever that cry had come from would
pass by without noticing us.

The mists shivered and parted, sheer curtains in a breeze, I looked around. Turning
off the light seemed like a good idea; no sense making it easier for whatever was out
there to find us. Behind the mists it was full night. There was light ahead . . . the full
moon? No. “Sh1t,” I muttered to myself. “Shitshitshitshitshit.” I remembered. Tonight was
the new moon. On Samhain. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” I searched my mind for more ways
to mentally castigate myself for this monumental folly.

Shapes moved within the glow. Muffled sounds. Bells. Hooves. The soft jingle of bridles.
Silhouettes floated forward in the shreds of the fog. I knelt with my arms around my
dogs***700; necks, whispering to them to be still, quiet,
“Danu, Lady, Mother, Goddess . . . Cernnunos . . . . watch over your own . . .”

The rade turned before the riders saw us. The dogs stayed motionless, soundless, I
breathed again.

And one rider, the last, broke away from the rest and I found myself looking up into a
cloak of endless shadow, a face unseen save for burning green eyes . . .

***************

My hounds and I . . . . Now we ride to The Hunt. We will never grow old. We will never
falter. We will never be parted. We are a new legend in this latter land, given life by the
legends of our ancestors.

Watch for us where the mists swirl near green mounds; me and my three -- one red as
autumn bracken, one black as deepest night, one dappled gray as twilight shadows.
Listen for the song of our hunting. If the blood in your veins surges to the sound of the
harp and your skin thrills to the drone of the pipes, watch and know the Old Ways are
alive and well.

But if your belly clutches in a knot and your throat closes in ragged terror and you claw
at your crosses with clammy hands . . . aye, well, you will learn . . .

My name is Morgan.
LOVE IT!


Love everyones! Hys is great!
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  #25  
Old 10-31-2010, 09:55 AM
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VERY WELL DONE to all three of you! I love a good scary movie, story, or poem!

And no, I won't be walking in the woods on Halloween night.........or quite possibly any other night now! LOL
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  #26  
Old 10-31-2010, 10:05 AM
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Hyia! What an amazing imagination you have! Terrific! You've got me positively scared out of my wits now!

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"If you love wealth better than liberty, the tranquility of servitude better than the animating contest of freedom, go home from us in peace. We ask not your counsels or arms. Crouch down and lick the hands which feed you. May your chains set lightly upon you and may posterity forget that ye were our countrymen." -- Samuel Adams 1776





"When the people fear their government, there is tyranny; when the government fears the people, there is liberty."

Thomas Jefferson
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  #27  
Old 10-31-2010, 10:34 AM
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HEre is my effort.

Charcoal

It has been a really bad day. Work sucked, her boss jumping down her throat, the car broke down and of course when she called for help, there was no way he could come, and then tempers flew as soon as she came in the door. It was not her fault, the hoses are old, he should have changed them, HIm not her, but that was not the way he saw it. She's already doing everything else, the shopping, the clothes, the house, the children, why can't he take care of this one thing for her? How can he shout at her when it was she that had to walk home in the dark on Halloween night, carrying everything? There certainly was no worry for her safety was there. SHe had no sooner stepped in tired, hot, upset before he started in on how the house was a mess. Why could other women manage a job and children and still keep the house right? WHat was wrong with her? His shouting rattled the windows until he wore himself out and slammed down in his chair with his beer.

SHE went to her room and shut the door. THe only thing left to do was to retreat to the sketch book. Her place, and her place alone, the only place where she could go where she could control what is happening. SHe opened it up and let her fingers brush the pristine paper. Thinking that the tooth would hold a charcoal nicely. She began to feel the tension unwind in her mind. The first stroke made the back bone of a horse. A black horse, to fit her black day. SHe filled in the muscles with wide strokes, thinking heavy, to fit her mood. Wondering why why why should her boss be so ugly to everyone all the time. There should be a rider to take him away to the place where he could get what he deserves. She reaches for her charcoal pencils for detail. Shading in a cloak, yes, that is what he needs. She wants him foreboding. SHe smudges away the face, until only a dark pit remained inside the cloak, a grim reaper of a spirit, so evil that there would be no question, no way to fight his power. She took a piece of sandpaper and rubbed her pencil against it, stroking one direction until it was sharp, sharp like the pain she felt inside. Several quick strokes filled in the mane, and brought the rider into focus. While thinking of the man in the next room, his mood making a thick fog of anger that tried to seep under her door she rubbed her finger against the vine charcoal and swiped it across the ground of her drawing, over and around the horses' feet, and off into the background. Hoping this poisonous fog would swallow them both whole, the man that professed he loved her, and the man that controlled her income. Let them both fall to this rider, this bringer of grief, and doom. Finally she penciled in a mountain range so rocky and immense they could never escape. With a heavy sigh, she tore the page out and pinned it over her desk. HEr emotions released, her ducks back in a line.

It was time to fix dinner, to do the dishes, to keep her feelings locked inside so that words and fists wouldn't fly. She knew he would see the drawing, and she knew he would rip it off the wall, she knew he would throw it on the floor in disgust. She also knew he would know and that was enough for now. He could not take this away from her. She could always make more. And one day, one day she would draw herself away from him once and for all.
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Go Petie Go Go Who Go!

love comes in many directions with mary


Side by side on the sofa sat three annoyed dogs and one smug cat
and then in came a little white kitten,

Last edited by smkie; 10-31-2010 at 11:24 AM.
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  #28  
Old 10-31-2010, 12:07 PM
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Very cool, spooky story, Hyia I hope you keep writing!

That's good storytelling, Smkie, pure and honest.

I love how each person has put themselves out there and invested something of themselves in their stories. That is how you wring the emotions out of your readers -- even if the voice or situation you've used is completely fantasy, that gives it the essential truth that a GOOD story needs

Love reading these. I hope more people post up!
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  #29  
Old 10-31-2010, 12:47 PM
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Wow, we have some talented writers here :-) I enjoyed reading these.
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  #30  
Old 10-31-2010, 02:32 PM
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The Painting

This, being my first trip to an art gallery in the small town of York, England, I moved slowly among the works to take in all I could. With my complimentary glass of Chardonnay in one hand, I drank in the beautiful paintings in oils and watercolor. Depicted were scenes of gardens, alive with bursting color, landscapes of purple moors, frothy seascapes and rich still-lifes. There were vases with dalais and poppies, fruits and vegetables and a whole wall of portraits of people I didn’t know. The gallery was in a fairly large, drafty, old brick building, made smaller by twists, turns and strange angles, cutting off the view of the whole, save for one hall way at a time. My feet barely stopped as I meandered through a maze of walls, enjoyably sipping my wine. That is, until one large, dark oil jerked my eyes toward it‘s spot on the wall. It commanded me to linger, to stop my feet. My eyes widened, I felt my pupils dilate as I searched this dark, ominous, near life-like picture. Here it was, out of place among the rest, luring me to take still, a closer look. I stepped forward and then back again, straining to focus, to ensure it was just a regular painting. With my hand, suddenly trembling, I tipped back my wine glass to finish the contents quickly and set the glass down on a little shelf under the painting. Quickly, averting my eyes from my wine glass’s spot on the shelf back to the painting, I felt a weakness all over. Was it my quivering limbs or did the black horse in the painting move? It must have been the wine making me light headed, as all was still now.

Moving my gaze from the horse up to the rider, I saw a handsome, virile man, cloaked all in black. I wondered if this were a real man, someone known to the artist. He had expert command of the spirited and anxious black horse, whose muscular and powerful body was clearly in a high state of action. Where a moment before, I wondered who this dark, handsome man was, I began to sense a vague familiarity with him as he held my gaze in his knowing, dark eyes. I was gripped by an unexplained and powerful emotion. Who was this man atop the black horse, with whom he was almost one? Mysteriously, I felt a connection to a strange past. Was he a missed chance from another life, another plane in this life? My consciousness soon evaded me while primal senses took charge of me.

Jagged hills in the background were shrouded in the darkness of a frighteningly stormy night. Blustering winds tore at the rider’s cape. So vivid, I could feel the air from the snorting, black horse, his nostrils flaring and eyes widened in trepidation that night. Thunder cracked above my head. I could hear the wind, loudly hissing through the trees, ripping away fall leaves of no particular color and carrying them swiftly on the wind out of the picture, though no trees were in the picture, no leaves.

The horse moved again and my head suddenly whirled round and round, my vision blurring. Feeling sick and steadying myself on the wall behind me, I sunk carefully down onto a cold, marble bench placed along that wall. Closing my eyes to try to regain normalcy, I suddenly felt the familiar rolling motion of a horse under me, my legs against hard leather, my arms crushed against my sides. My surroundings were nothing but close blackness. Not a movement of a shadow, not a glimmer of a cloud could be seen.

As eerily as it began, all motion stopped. My eyes, straining to see anything, anything at all, began to focus. Consciousness crept in and I found myself lying on a large bed, ensconced in layers of white gauze, like cob webs all around me. Terrified, but comfortable, I lay motionless, trying to make sense of my condition. Where was I? How did I get here? Though a fire burned in the stone grate, mixed with the acrid smell of wood smoke, there was a musty, dankness about the room and a foggy, non-descript atmosphere, save for the very near surroundings. Two antique side tables flanked the bed I bewilderedly lay on, a worn, burgundy velvet chair by a small paned window and an old steamer chest completed my view.

A cold sweat broke out on my forehead, my heart pounded against the walls of my chest, as out of the foggy perimeter of the large room, the black figure emerged. But this wasn’t the handsome rider. This near apparition pointed an accusatory, skeletal hand toward me. The hand shook with tension. My eyes traveled upward in search of the handsome, tanned face and knowing eyes that had before, evoked a stirring in me. But what I saw was a hollow, empty area beneath the gaping cloak where a face should be. I blinked and strained, but could see no face. Was this a nightmare? Was I going to wake up soon? I needed to hear my own voice, but could not speak. I wanted to pinch myself, but could not move. Foreboding turned to utter panic. The only voice I heard was the shrill screaming trapped within my head.

Where was the hallway in the art gallery I had been standing in moments before, the marble bench? Where was the art gallery, my wine glass on the little shelf, the paintings? I longed to see the other people who were visiting this centuries old building, the familiar comfort of unfamiliar faces…any faces. I could not move. I could not speak. Complete darkness then enveloped me, protected me from the terror of the faceless figure in the black cape. I felt nothing. Both of my worlds ceased to exist.

Slowly, I awoke with a crushing headache and as I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was a small puddle of something red next to my face. I moved my hand on a cold, wet surface. Looking at my hand, I realized it was covered in blood, my blood. There were people bending over me; one woman stroking my face with her warm, motherly hand and a young man covering me with his wool coat. As I came to and my eyes and brain worked together to recognize my surroundings, I realized I was on a slate floor next to the marble bench. What a sweet and familiar place I was in. Welcome was my minor head injury from sliding from the bench onto the floor. It was real. Welcome was the real art gallery and the real people with faces and warm hands.

Then it all came back to me, but not very clearly; my wine glass, the black, ominous painting, my gauzy entombment. What was it in the painting that had left me with lingering trauma, but tingling curiosity? My eyes began to move upward toward that spot on the wall in search of an answer. Instinctively, I knew I shouldn’t but something….someone drew me back into the dark, stormy night.

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"If you love wealth better than liberty, the tranquility of servitude better than the animating contest of freedom, go home from us in peace. We ask not your counsels or arms. Crouch down and lick the hands which feed you. May your chains set lightly upon you and may posterity forget that ye were our countrymen." -- Samuel Adams 1776





"When the people fear their government, there is tyranny; when the government fears the people, there is liberty."

Thomas Jefferson

Last edited by Doberluv; 10-31-2010 at 03:19 PM.
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