skeletal tree

Crimson Peak (2015) dir. Guillermo del Toro

The bleak house stood at the end of a red clay path, surrounded by dead brown grass and skeletal trees and backed by a dark gray sky. Gone were the boulevards lined with trees and topiaries. No porte cochère to shelter aristocrats’ coaches as they disgorged visitors; indeed, no visitors. 

hillary crouches patiently behind the dead foliage and skeletal trees waiting to pounce on the next mother and baby she sees hiking through chappaqua woods. fight song plays distantly, she takes a selfie.. then she feeds

Unorthodox Introductions

Context: In this case I was the player. I had been sitting in on a Roll20 campaign for a while, and it became apparent the party wizard was going to be afk for several months due to real-life events. I offered to join, at least temporarily, to fill the hole left by the wizard. 

DM: So, how do you meet the party?
Me: Uh, can I roll stealth? (I figured I’d roll something the dm could work with because I was drawing a blank).
DM: Eh, sure?
Me: *Rolls poorly*
DM: Ooh! I know how this is gonna go down! I’ll be right back! (*goes to bathroom, comes back*).
DM: Yes! Iriella, you are hiding in a tree, and one of the skeletal dwarves, unable yet to accept his fate, comes up to the tree you are in and undoes his trousers. While he’s pretending to pee, he looks up and sees you in the tree! 
DM: The dwarf runs back to the camp and alerts the others!

The shed of leaves became a cascade of red and gold and after a time the trees stood skeletal against a sky of weathered tin. The land lay bled of its colours. The nights lengthened, went darker, brightened in their clustered stars. The chilled air smelled of woodsmoke, of distances and passing time. Frost glimmered on the morning fields. Crows called across the pewter afternoon
—  James Carlos Blake - Wildwood Boys
a couple days ago,
i got in the car and told myself i was going to get lost.
i looked for roads i didn’t know,
took turns i didn’t recognize
and did my best to ignore landmarks and street signs-
but, somehow, i still ended
up on that road haunted by the ghost of the old hitchhiker
(i’m sure you know the one)
and as i was driving down it,
skeletal trees and miscellaneous forest-life
framing that two lane road that never let me get too far away from home,
i thought i caught a glimpse of him.
the man who, if you ignore him three times,
shows up in your back seat and drives you off the road.
but i only saw him once before i got home,
and i didn’t stop for him
because by the time i realized who he was it was way too late
(and if he had really wanted a ride from me he would have shown up again, don’t you think?)
i know i should have been scared-
most of his stories end with some kind of crash-
but mostly it was just nice to know
that someone else was out there that night,
as the sun was starting to set
and the shadows were getting longer,
someone who’s just as lonely as i was
someone who’s also stuck on that stupid road
determined to take you home.
—  13. january, a.b.e.

PART TWO  (Companions react to losing the wedding ring)

Featuring:  MacCready, Nick Valentine, Piper, Preston, and X6-88

I’m terribly sorry for writing so much. I really liked this prompt. <3  Enjoy these mini stories!! Also, thank you for the compliment, anon :)

CLICK HERE FOR PART ONE: Cait, Curie, Danse, Deacon, Hancock


MacCready:  “Hey, you’ve gotta see the view from up here, hun,” MacCready breathes, looking out at the ruins of the wasteland.  He never expected something so atrocious and devastating to be so … captivating.  The way the fog hangs in the air like a weightless veil, suffocating the ground full of skeletal trees and wreckage.  He had suggested earlier that week that they get away from the city and Sanctuary for a day or two; see other parts of the Commonwealth.  Clear their heads and spend quality time with one another. Lucy and him never made spare time for enjoyment, and he’s not about to make the same mistake with Sole.

“I’ve got a pretty good view from where I’m standing,” Sole says, staring at him from several feet away.  MacCready feels a small blush creep onto his fair cheeks, wiping a hand down his mouth to hide a smile.  Every day he finds himself falling deeper and deeper in love with them. It boggles his mind sometimes.  He of course loved Lucy, but Sole?  They are the morning sunrise, the sound of birds chirping in the sky, the reason why he’s not running with the Gunners again or dead in the sewers.  They’re the reason that Duncan is still alive, and he will never be able to thank them enough.

The two continue hiking for some time, sharing stories of Little Lamplight and of the life before the war, when he notices that he’s fidgeting with his left hand.

Oh no,” he moans.  His stomach feels as though it’s fallen to his knees, his heartbeat now in his throat. The ring, which is always circled around his left finger, is nowhere to be seen.  “Oh no, no.  Crap!” Sole watches him confusingly as he pats himself down frantically, checking each and every pocket and the inside of his boots.  “What is it?!” they ask him, but he’s too panicked to respond right away.  “Darn it, not there either.  I—I can’t find the ring you gave me!”  He bites his lip when he feels tears starting to brim in his eyes. He knows.  He knows how significant and important a ring is—especially when it has been someone else’s.  He remembers the time he gave Lucy a ring, the day Sole told him they loved him, the evening when they asked if he’d take Nate/Nora’s ring for his own.

“Hey, take a deep breath!” Sole says, grabbing his shoulders and kissing him full on the mouth, stopping MacCready from losing it. The amount of guilt that he feels is agonizing, but they make him snap out of it.  They tell him, “Listen, it’s okay.  We can look around for it, but if we can’t find it … it’s no big deal. So long as we have each other, it doesn’t matter what happens.  Yeah?”

They’re right.  Of course they’re right.  Objects are replaceable and people are not.  He explains that he wants to make it up to Sole, though.  They merely shake their head and tell him not to worry. Later that night, when the two of them are cuddled up together next to a fire, he sits and thinks of ideas.  When a perfect thought finally comes to him, he blushes, then leans over to kiss Sole.

“How about we stop at Diamond City on the way home and pay Pastor Clements a visit?  Ring or not, I’d like to formally marry you.”

Nick: He’s sitting at his desk, a tall stack of files and papers before him, when he realizes the ring is missing. Nick Valentine, the famous synth detective, has lost something very dear to him, and he hasn’t the faintest clue of its whereabouts.  Sole is searching through the filing cabinet looking for information on a case the two of them are working on.  A forty-year-old man named Ryder has gone missing.  Ryder probably up and left and joined the Raiders, in Nick’s opinion, but the family of the man is adamant on having the Agency find him.

Seeing that the ring Sole gave him is no longer on his left hand, Nick finds himself starting a new case.  How could he lose something so precious to him?  It isn’t just a ring.  It’s a piece of their past life that he’s carelessly misplaced.

“Sweetheart,” he breaks through the silence.  He feels his whole body tighten when Sole responds with a warm “hmm?” and then wraps their arms around his torso from behind.  They place a kiss on the side of his jaw and he takes their hand, closing his eyes. “It looks like we’ll have to postpone the Ryder case for now.  There’s a new problem that’s arisen.”  He reluctantly explains that he truly doesn’t know where the ring has gone.  Perhaps it slipped off of his hand?  He doesn’t want to show Sole that he’s capable of forgetting things, but as they’ve said before: Nick is more human than most humans. And humans most definitely make honest mistakes from time to time.

He is exceptionally grateful for how well Sole takes the information.  They simply agree to help look, and assure him that everything is all right.   How is this old bucket of bolts so lucky?  He mulls it over and over in his mind, but can’t fathom how incredibly fortunate he is to have someone as kind and devoted and understanding as Sole.  He truly loves them, even when he thought it wasn’t possible for him to love.  He is a synth, after all.  A metal man.

Three days pass, and after turning over every stick and stone in the places they’d traveled in the Commonwealth, he can’t find the wedding ring anywhere.  The two arrive back at the Agency and Sole leans against the desk.  They know how awful Nick feels, but he won’t rest until he rights this wrong.  “Dear, I’m going to make this up to you,” he says, his voice soft.  He brings his lips to theirs to seal the promise.

While Sole sleeps that night, he meets up with a special friend across from the Agency: Arturo Rodriguez.  He doesn’t know how Sole will react to his plan, but he’s fairly confident about it.  If he can’t find the ring, why not make his own?  Arturo isn’t a jewelry maker, but his skills in crafting are exceptional. After a few hours, he returns to the Agency and waits downstairs for Sole to wake.  He hears the their stifled yawned as the morning comes, and moves himself into position.

Sole reaches the last step to find Nick waiting for them, knelt down on one knee.  A small metallic ring in his hand, he looks at them longingly—like he’ll never be able to look at them enough.  “I lost the ring you gave me, and I apologize for misplacing something that meant the entire world to you and to myself.  The truth is, I love you, and I will continue to love you until your last breath when I myself am rusted and brittle.  To prove that, I’ve made this ring for you from the scrap metal of my own heart. Maybe it’s appalling, maybe it’s not, but I want you to have a piece of me wherever you go.”

Sole is at a loss for words.  How could they speak?  Nick is literally giving them his heart.  Tears in their eyes, they accept his beautifully crafted ring, and in return give him their own golden band.  From then on, the two feel closer to each other than ever before.  There’s nothing he won’t do for Sole.

Piper: “Nat, if we want to keep selling these newspapers, we’re going to have to sell all of this junk.  Paper isn’t cheap, sis.” Piper sighs as she throws what seems like the hundredth tin can into a full cardboard box.  Piper and Nat have been cleaning their home for a few hours, boxing up unnecessary things that are taking up space to sell for a few caps.  Sole’s been in and out of the Publick Occurrences office, helping carry the miscellaneous items to the vendors in the Diamond City Market.

Her hands swelling from lifting objects and working on her newest article, Piper slides the gold wedding ring off of her finger and sets it on her desk.  Every time she thinks about the day Sole gave her that ring, her heart seems to skip a beat. She never imagined that someone like Blue would ever find her and fall in love with her, but they sure did.  The Commonwealth isn’t exactly the most friendly and romantic place, after all.

She watches them come in and grab the last of the junk. They kiss her on the cheek on their way out and she flushes.  When she goes back up to get her ring, she finds an empty desk and lets out a scream. “Oh, damn, damn, damn, damn …” she frets, looking under the desk, in between the floorboards, anywhere to find the gold band.  After a few minutes of failure to find the ring, she feels herself becoming light headed. Sole enters and is immediately at her side.  “Whoa, what’s wrong?!”

Tears of frustration are starting to fall down Piper’s face.  “The ring. I think it got mixed in with one of the boxes you took out to sell.  We’ve got to go and find it!”  Sole takes immediate action.  Anything to help out the one they love.  They tear through every last box, talk to every vendor in the market, but the ring is nowhere to be found.  It’s possible someone stole from their junk pile, and with a crowded, shady place like Diamond City, the possibilities are endless.

Piper is completely devastated.  Sole buys her noodles and kisses her, telling her that it was an honest mistake and that everything will be okay.  Sole lets her wear their ring until they can find a new one for her.

Preston:  The hardest thing about loving Sole so much is that it hurts him more than anything every time they leave on a mission.  Preston is a busy man himself, and he knows that if the Commonwealth is to ever become a safe place, he and Sole will have to be apart from time to time. Still, he can’t help but have a heavy heart with each goodbye.

On this particular rainy morning, Preston finds himself stuffing a sack full of Sole’s favorite foods.  They are leaving Sanctuary for a couple days to help out a small town infested with feral ghouls.  He wants to accompany them, but they asked for him to stay in Sanctuary and help look over the settlers there.  They are his lover, but first and foremost his General, and he of course doesn’t argue. He knows they’ll be able to take care of themselves.  As he’s packing the bag of food for them, he doesn’t notice the gold wedding ring slide off his finger and into the sack.

“All ready?” he asks them, admiring how astonishing they look against the orange hue of the sunrise.  His heart swells with pride.  This wonderful person who saved him from the Raiders and Deathclaw, who forms countless settlements, and who has a genuine passion for making the Commonwealth a better world loves him.  And my, how he loves them.  He wishes them luck and with a final, long kiss, sends them on their way.

On the first night of Sole’s absence, Preston hears a commotion coming from inside one of the houses.  Jun and Marcy are arguing again.  It’s becoming a common occurrence, and the settlers are starting to notice.  “Boy, am I glad Sole and I don’t fight like that,” he says.  Sturges overhears and smiles, then asks how the two of them are doing.  Preston is more than eager to talk about Sole.  He doesn’t ever brag about being the General’s lover—it’s not like that.  He genuinely thinks the world of Sole and can’t keep himself from telling others about them and all of the great things they do. “It couldn’t be better.  About a week ago, things got pretty serious. Sole gave me their husband’s/wife’s wedding ring and asked if I would wear it.  Here, take a look.”

He is stricken with horror at the sight of his ring-less finger.  Sturges looks to Preston with raised brows.  “Hey.  Don’t panic, Pres. We’ll go look for it, ok?  C’mon, it’s gotta be round’ here somewhere.”  The two search all of Sanctuary, but the wedding ring has disappeared off of the face of the planet, so it seems.  Preston’s insides are churning over and over.  What would Sole say to him?  He feels his face go uncomfortably hot at the thought of telling them about the missing ring.

When Sole comes back, they have a few new scratches on their cheeks, but otherwise nothing too serious.  “How was your mission?” Preston asks them.  They, however, are more interested in attacking him with a bear hug, burrowing their face into his chest.  They tell him how much they missed him and start recapping the past couple of days—the whole time the nervousness rises stronger and stronger inside of him.  Before Sole can finish their story, Preston has to stop them.  “I have a confession to make.  I seemed to have lost the wedding ring that you gave me.”

To his utter most surprise, they smile.  “Well, if you would’ve let me finish my story, you would know that the ring isn’t lost.  In fact, it almost became a snack.”  He watches them pull the gold band out of the empty food sack he packed.  Embarrassment floods his face, but he feels a rush of relief surge through his body.  He promises them to keep a closer eye on it from now on, but the ring is the least of their worries at the moment.  Two days is a long time to be without him, they say, gesturing to their bedroom. Preston understands completely and scoops them into his arms, kissing them all the way to their bed where he lays them down to worship their body.

X6-88: “I lost the ring you gave me,” he says with the straightest of expressions.  Sole is actually a little surprised, mostly because X6-88 rarely messes up or loses anything.  He knows that Sole is disappointed, but there isn’t any sense in not telling them.  He always speaks the truth of what’s on his mind, no matter how hard it may be for others to hear.

CLICK HERE FOR PART ONE: Cait, Curie, Danse, Deacon, Hancock

DEPRIVED: A Dark Souls Story (As Told by Ashemma)

Chapter One: Cemetery of Ash

Chapter Two: The Great Crystal Lizard

[Part One Comic]

I awoke to dreary midday light pushing against my eyelids.

My name is Ashemma. This is the story of how I died.

My muscles ached and my bones protested as I struggled to my feet. I felt cold stone under my fingers, gripping clumsily at it for support. I strained my eyes against the light, trying to figure out just where I was. When I finally got a look at my environment, a vast, disorganized graveyard loomed back at me. Headstones haphazardly dotted the landscape; stone coffins, some empty, some yet closed, looked as if they’d been smashed into the terrain by a giant, some on the ground, some buried against hill faces. Skeletal trees—naked maples, perhaps?—stretched their great leafless branches into the fog-laden air, dominating their respective territories and brooking no challengers.

What am I doing here?

I couldn’t remember how I’d arrived there. I couldn’t remember much at all; at the time, even my name escaped me.

I pulled myself out of the coffin I’d apparently been left in, nearly faceplanting on the cold earth. I felt the cold in my bones, such was the chill in the air. I pushed through the morning mist, and groped at the walls, and started making my way down the only path visible to me: towards the light, through a shallow stream. As I walked, I kept trying to remember what had happened, where I was, who I was.

Hitting my head on a root jutting out of the hill face shook me out of my reverie. I grunted and tried to shake the pain away as I turned the corner.

Something moved in the periphery and my head snapped up in surprise.

A cloaked figure, standing in the distance in front of a mound of coffins, ankle-deep in the water… and staring into the distance. Perhaps he was familiar with the area; maybe he’d know the answers to my many questions.

I tried to speak, to call out, but no words came forth from my lips. Was I mute? Had I simply forgotten how to speak? I tried something else, stepping forward in the water, and waved an arm frantically, hoping it might catch his attention.

It did.

He turned, and for a moment I thought I saw something horrible in his features, dark pits where eyes should’ve been on a too-skeletal face. It must’ve been a trick of the light, or the way the hood made shadows fall on his face. He began ambling his way toward me, pushing through the water, and I suspected there was something terribly predatory in his gait. Only when he was too close did I see the glint of light off metal in his other hand that he’d kept hidden behind his robes—a broken straight sword, corroded with rust, but carrying an edge that made it no less deadly to the unarmored.

And I was severely without armor.

I threw up my hands to ward him off, tried to shout defiance, but still no words—only a terrified scream that turned into a choked, blood-filled gurgle as he slit my throat.


I awoke to dreary midday light pushing against my eyelids.

My name is Ashemma. This is the story of how I died.

I was dimly aware of a scream in the back of my mind, and only after several minutes, as the scream died off, withering from exhaustion, did I realize that it had been me doing the screaming. I was covered in sweat, sitting in a stone coffin that was all too familiar. I hesitated, then gingerly reached up, feeling my throat, expecting to feel the bloody gash that had killed me. Nothing. No wound.

Was it a dream? It must’ve been a dream.

I tucked my knees against my chest and buried my face against them. I let out a choked sob of relief.

I’m still alive. I’m still alive. It had just been a horrible nightmare.

I looked to my right—the cemetery. If it was a dream, I hadn’t imagined that much. Fog still snaked through the brush, winding its way over grave markers and crumbling sarcophagi like a grim and ghostly serpent. Maybe something in the fog—something that invoked hallucinations and mad dreams in the sufferers. I looked to my left.

It had not been a dream.

A bloodstain, red and fresh, was splattered in the shallow water just beyond the leaf-strewn dirt. That was where I’d been standing when… I touched my throat again and felt my eyes widen. Above the blood, a gently-glowing ember of emerald, calling to me. I did not know what it was, but I knew it was somehow connected to me, somehow mine.

If it wasn’t a dream…

That murderer—my murderer—was still out there, just beyond the edge of my vision. Blocking the only way out of the cemetery.

I need a weapon.

I shot up to a stand and searched with purpose for something, anything, that might serve my need. There. Just next to my coffin, hidden in plain sight: an unadorned club, clearly meant as a weapon from the leather wraps around the handle, and a crude shield made of wood planks. Seven gold coins, tarnished with age, were strewn about it. Odd. Next to the club… It couldn’t be.

An Estus flask? That’s a fabled treasure of the Und—

I cut off the thought mid-sentence, my eyes widening with dawning realization. I sat back down in the coffin, held a hand to my mouth, and stared in horror at the items laid before me.

I had died.

Not just from the sword-wielding maniac, but… sometime before. I had joined the ranks of the Undead in their lost lands. I don’t remember how it had happened, but it was a fact I’d need to come to grips with, and fast, or I’d end up with a fate worse than death—or Undeath. I grabbed the coins and the Estus flask, giving it a kiss for good luck, and then snatched up the club. I took up the plank shield. With a grunt, I tested my hold on my new implements, and found they suited me just fine.

[Part Two Comic]

With renewed purpose, and a goal in mind—to not die a third time—I stalked towards my bloodstain and that pulsing, attractive light. As I stepped out into the water, I glanced to the side, bracing for attack. No such attack came—the creature, a Hollow now I realize—was back where I’d initially seen him, staring off into the midday sun. Perfect. I  frowned with determination, turned back to the emerald flame, blew the hair out of my eyes, and focused. My club disappeared with scarcely a sound—but I knew I still had it at the ready if needed, one of the stranger quirks of Undeath; the coins and flask had similarly faded from visibility, but were as accessible as if they’d been in trouser pocket—and I reached out with my naked hand to the flame.

It didn’t burn me. It was actually pleasantly warm. Time seemed to slow as the flame dwindled into my hand, resting snugly on my palm, and I felt the tingling sensation of old memories surging to the surface.

Ashemma, it whispered to me, in a father’s warm voice.

My name, I realized. The name I had apparently forgotten in the transition to… my new state. Is that what the flame was? Memory? A piece of myself, that I would’ve lost forever had I not reclaimed it.

I looked towards the sword-wielding Hollow from before, still locked in his sun-induced reverie.

And you would’ve stolen that from me, I reckoned grimly.

I stalked towards him, heedless of the splashing water. Let him hear me. He turned sharply, having apparently done just that, and let out a breathless grunt as he heaved up his broken sword and ran at me. This time, I was ready. I snapped up the shield to catch the blade—


It slid right between the planks, got caught on the rope, and bit into my thumb and forefinger. Fueled by pain and desperation, I howled wordlessly, flared my arm out, sending his sword arm out wide, and then lunged forward. Hips, torso, arm, and wrist, all turning to maximize the force as I screamed and smashedthe club into his face. My arm numbed from the impact. The sound itself was sickening—bone cracked under the singular assault, teeth flew through the air and likely turned into deadly projectiles in his mouth, blood sprayed, and I knew I’d killed him… at least, temporarily.

He reared back for a frozen instant, his expression a limp mask as blood and spittle trailed from his gaping mouth, and then he crumpled into the water with a splash, the broken sword landing some distance away. I drew back into a ready position, just in case he might rise again—Undead being legendary for such returns from death—just in time to spy a white spark leave his body… and streak towards me. I gasped involuntarily, raised the shield and—

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

What a beautiful day.

I stared into the distance as the morning sun peeked over the mountains, shedding golden light on the imperial courtyard. Sunbeams glinted off the sacred bell, resting in silence at the top of its soaring tower. The air smelled of sweet alyssum and gardenias. Children were playing in the gardens; a pair of lovers were nestled together on one bench, a young noble on another, reading an old tome. Songbirds chirped merrily in the trees.

I wish this moment could last forever.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

I found myself staring slack-jawed at nothing as the image faded from my mind. It took me a moment to recover, as I turned to regard the corpse laying at my feet. That was his soul, that had just pierced my chest. Not just his soul—a piece of memory, something the Hollow had stubbornly held fast to, even as he lost the rest of his identity. I frowned pensively at the soulless body, bowed my head in respect to the man that had been lost, and then turned with purpose.

A ruined courtyard rose up to greet me, sprawling into the distance, all crumbled stone and shattered foundations. A great stone water basin, broken and useless, dominated my view; in front of it, an old corpse… but radiating a mysterious glow.

What is that?

Chapter Two: The Great Crystal Lizard

fenhawke drabble about accidental spooning. Takes place just before Act 2


“I can’t believe this,” Isabela grumbles. “Harvestmere doesn’t even end for another two weeks.”

Fenris isn’t happy about it either, and he gazes balefully at the pale-grey clouds above them, the snowflakes drifting down through the skeletal trees. “How much further to the Vimmarks?” he asks. “Two days?”

“Only if we’re quick about it,” Anders replies. “Count on three. I mean, it’s not that bad. We’ve got blankets and things, haven’t we?”

Beside him Fenris notices a hitch in Hawke’s step. “Hawke,” he says sharply.

“I’m Fereldan! I’m perfectly able to sleep through a bit of autumn chill!”

“It is snowing!”

Hawke sags. “I didn’t know it was going to snow.”

Fenris presses a hand to his forehead. “You may use my blanket. I will be fine without it.”

“Fenris, I’m not going to steal your blanket—“

“Steal? Did you not just hear me offer it freely—“

“Andraste’s garters—you can just share it!” Isabela interjects.

Keep reading

(soz 4 almost crying)

This Didn’t End Up Like I Thought It Would

it is cold where i am


i remember your kiss.

i lick my lips

and taste fire;

i lick my lips

and taste ash.

where you are

is a shattered dream

trying to repair


with a nightmare.

your eyes

are two broken records

stuck in a hurricane

made from

your own flesh.

i wish i could save you -


i wish you could save

yourself -


i wish you could be


your arms are a graveyard;

white lines

the size of ghosts

sketched across your wrists

like skeletal trees.

(i can hear your veins


your pupils have echoes

of your

darkest days

twisted around them

in the shape of a noose

you found

in your shoelaces.

it kills me

to think of you like this.

but not as much

as it is killing you.

everything we


has been sliced

into nothing

by my own hands.

i have killed so many poems

in losing you –

it is cold where i am


i remember your kiss.

i lick my lips

and taste fire;

i lick my lips

and taste ash;



the remains


a dead thing the size of

a black hole

exit wound.

my hands

clench at the sound

of your name

like they are either

trying to shut

it out

or keep it


inside my fist


i think - know -

it is the latter.


The night is wild and chill,
clouds racing o’er the harvest moon,
eerie shadows from moonlight spill,
on a Celtic Cross from a crumbling tomb.
The Gothic house looms tall and bleak,
Gargoyles guard it’s ivied stone;
their eyes ablaze with evil seek,
who dare invade their heinous home.

Owls standing guard in skeletal trees,
the tree boughs creaking in loud protest,
limbs swaying in the gusting breeze,
to scare intruders from the Daemons nest.
And the doors loom up to meet my gaze;
this foolish man on a foolish quest;
the Daemons that I must erase,
to fulfill my calling, to fulfill my test.

The doors creak open, on a hall so vast,
portraits stare from the cold, bleak walls;
dead eyes are staring from their evil past,
and from cruel, cold lips, their chilling calls.
The stairway stands so huge and dark,
the Master stares, from his hiding place;
a full size portrait, so cold and stark,
with evil etched upon its face.

I take out my stake as I climb the stairs,
my hammer ready to strike the blow,
I choke back bile, I eat my fears,
as screaming bellows from the hall below.
I place the stake on the portrait’s heart,
and with a mighty strike, t’is buried deep,
and the  eyes flash open, on this evil art,
and from it’s breast, dark blood doth seep.

Howling and screaming rent the night;
the house is weeping for its host so vile,
as I run and I fall into the night,
and look back upon its Gothic style.
The Gargoyles splinter and fall to bits,
stones cascading down in a swirling cloud,
an ozone stench as lighting hits,
and inside, the Daemons scream so loud.

I walk the night, the moon smiles down,
my work is done,the night is calm,
and up ahead, another town,
where the Daemon works its evil charm .
You might see me as I pass your way,
you may remember a face so white,
and say my name, as you kneel and pray,
for t’is I who saves you, from the night.

Ambrose Harte
Scattered Thoughts.


Streets are carpeted from fallen, decaying leaves,
the trees are skeletal, barren, their thin arms protruding 
They tremble in colder nights without their leaves,
the birds no longer nestle in the branches, but flock to where frost will not follow.

Orange embers spark more frequently in blackened skies,
smoke undulates from tall chimneys,
the breath of Autumn grows heavier
While hymns of the wolves amplify.

Unearthing obscured memories,
now becoming more palpable
November twists the melancholy heart,
even in her golden mornings.