Enjoying my journey getting into fiction while occasionally dabbling in stories from my war times. Aspiring novelist and daydreamer. World nomad. Currently in Hawaii.
The Curse of Timber Den
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. A candle that marked the passing of yet more young souls consumed by a curse in the quaint New England town of Timber Den. A curse spat by a witch as she swung from the rafters of that cabin thousands of campfires before.
“There weren’t always Dragons in the Valley.” The Graybeard announced to the attendees of the ceremony. Altrex sat next to an empty seat, a seat formerly occupied by his closest friend and most trusted comrade. A comrade who would be recognized at this ceremony in the Alabaster Tower of Xanthir. The Alabaster Towers acted as places of historical maintenance as well as spiritual leadership across the land of Myln. The Graybeards were the caretakers of these cream-colored, decorative towers. This Graybeard, Onruk of Xanthir, had been raised from a child to occupy the high station of Graybeard. His simple gray robes adorned with only a thin silver belt at his waist. Funnily enough, his sternum length beard was white.
The SH-60 Seahawk lifted from the deck of the carrier pelting the deckhands of the USS Harry S. Truman with cold night air as it began its loud, but graceful ascent into the starless night sky. The USS Truman was underway at a southwest bound heading from Reykjavik, Iceland across the Atlantic Ocean towards home in Norfolk, Virginia. When the floating city of 5,000 US Navy souls was a few hundred nautical miles off the coast of Nova Scotia, the bridge received a distress call from a nearby ship. The flight deck became a frenzy of controlled chaos as the sailors prepared a Search and Rescue helo rigged like an ambulance spaceship for a SAR crew to go assist the troubled vessel.
A Perspective of Growth
When my mother died, she was gifted a second life within the likeness of another. I watch her perch from time to time, in a large oak in a grove on my property. Honestly, it is in truth her property. A quilt of fallen snow insulates her land from the warmth of spring on its way. Pure in its bright and stark contrast against her domain of nightfall. In that darkness, she sits as comfortable as a child in a womb. Cloaked in her comfortable sheath of icy black, she melts easily into either her dark surroundings, or the smooth fragile snow far below her tender white feathers.
Dick sat rigid while grabbing fist fulls of the plushy armrests of the chair. Jane descended the stairs with intentional patience, glaring his way. A crooked self satisfied smile on her face. Her teeth were perfect, but she has a nasty scar from her right ear down sweeping towards that right side of her smile. She is wearing a white dress made of some lacy fabric that swooshes whenever she takes a step. Her escaping custody didn’t bode well for anything in Dick’s universe. He began wondering where Nell is. Why has she not been crying if something happened? Why the fuck is Jane holding a butcher knife?