The family stands in the field, the cold wind of the northern farmlands blowing across their faces as they look at their start towards making a scarecrow, muffled cries can be heard.
The father turns towards the two children, he hands them a coat with a smile, the two children and put the coat on the scare crow, muffled cries can be heard.
Smiling the mother hands them a hat, a large hat, but its something they’d wear to keep the sun off the their face, the children put the hat firmly on the scare crow’s head, muffled cries can be heard.
The father pulls out a tool, to the give the scare crow the proper face. The muffled cries get louder and the children smile. They make the face, the muffled cries getting weaker until they go silent.
Now only the laughter of children remains, as the cold wind blows across the form of the new scarecrow and the children’s faces. Father drags the old scarecrow away, silence remains now, and the children go back inside. There is no more muffled cries, only weeping and the wind.
A Reading (Read by me)
Oddly fitting this airy flitting, this flowing floating flowering I find inside my mind.
Waving, wavering thoughts of fleeting smiles and cheerful chuckles floating on floundering ground a strangely sinking happiness I never thought to be found.
A sense of ease at these oddly fitting flitting fleeting ephemeral thoughts of ease that do indeed please, leave me a smile and a thought that in this moment I am indeed grateful to be.
Happy to exist, a pleasure to see, and while I’m happy, for this floating fleeting moment I’ll say with a smile and a wave “Happy to meet you!” with a nod and a quickly added “Good day!”
It’ll not last, that I’m sad to say. But instead I’ll smile and remember, the sad days that stay too long are the ones that make this fleeting floating an ephemeral dream, something that echoes long after its gone.
My life consists of a melancholy dream. A seeming thing of sighs and sights best disbelieved or simply ignored.
So it stands to be reasoned that I know not who I am or where I go I simply know this melancholy dream. This seeming with sighs and sounds best disbelieved or simply ignored.
So I move forward with nothing to show and nothing to gain, a life unlived. A death all the same.
Hurting, hurting, hunting the scar and seeing the sound as I travels to the ground and Me goes away once more.
We has returned only to go to Their grave and They have yet to be seen again, and Us remains unsure.
I knows not the Me that came nor recognize the We that went once more I lost Myself to Them the only ones I once let in before.
The ones that broke Me and left Us sad, that crippled They and sent the others to Their grave but most of all they shattered I when they broke Me and We have never been the same.
I recognize not the shadows of We or this crazed cursed Me, the ones with scars and pain and its all I see. So all cry and scream and laugh because even shattered, even broken.
I and We and Me and They go to Their grave and sit and carouse and watch as the moon glowers down and the roses blossom tulip flowers, for even mad and even crazed All can speak as one.
“Least We’re not alone.”
Laughing and scratching just at your door, hear the quiet steps.
See them scurry from out the light and into the dark, in which they keep their foul delight.
There is no fear to be had, of these spirits here, the owns that make them selves known, those that thrive on fear.
But truly, beware the silent home, fear the quiet dark, hear them plodding in silence and feel the ghastly breath upon that chilled nape of your neck.
Rest not the weary in a house of the dead for you’ll not waken again, this I fear my friend.
They come to take your breath, they come to take your warmth and in it’s place they leave only a chill embrace that has not a single bit of worth.
So fear the silence and rest not the weary but waken the wary and fear for thy soul for they come to claim it and the life you know.
This is the risk and the warning from the wary to the weary, and the words of the restless dead. I warn you not from goodness, but for myself and my own plans.
For I hope you laugh and shake your head, and then take yourself, your weary bones, to your untroubled bed resting in that corner of this home I know so well, this home in which I died, where I am dead.
And where I hope to live again.
Shuddering shaking and shivering in fear, the tapping, tapping that I hear so near.
The fear has returned, my bloodied muse at my back, her tortured hands upon my neck as her twisted face a broken smile of recognition.
Such a saddened thing at the return of my grim fate.
Lashed to the page, chained to the well, my pen drips the black ink, the color of my soul that I know so, so well.
My form ephemeral, my purpose not set, I am the writer, to my muse, a fond pet.
She neither cares for me, nor clothes me, or sees to my feed, for she devours not but fear and twisted dreams, and it seems, to me, expects myself to do the same.
Tipping, tapping, tipping, tapping, don’t be the one that is caught napping.
They’ll snatch you up and eat your soul. Slough off your flesh and devour you whole.
Then you’ll awake and wipe a sweat drenched brow and think to your self just a dream nothing more, nothing less, just idle thoughts tipping, tapping at my minds door nothing more, nothing less.
Tell me my friend, how does that comfort sit when you pull your hand back and see the blood on your clenched fist?
How does it rest with a throat torn raw from the screams of hell, that idea that whilst you were napping it was only just nightmares tipping, tapping, at your minds door?
I’ll say it again and I’ll speak no more, I’ll not be the one napping as they tip and tap upon my door. It’s never just a dream, or at least that’s my fear.
Because quite truly friend, while it is a dream, and it might be less.
There is a chance, a slim belief, that those tipping and tapping at your mind’s open door, might indeed be something, not less.
But quite dreadfully more.