Wooded Candle

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Nobody was paying attention to it. The candle was glowing a flourescent orange. With whisps of amber that floated through a ghostly pale ember. No-one was prepared for it, the ghastly forethought that was to become, a scattered pitchfork of scarred tactics.

The window was crusted over. Full of dusty cobwebs. And knick-knacks that did not belong on a window shelf. This window fantasized that it was in another window. A window that changed along with the seasons. The ghosts of another time. Another place. Another atmosphere.

A musician came along one day to inspect this window. He could tell that it was age old, and had its own story to tell. A story that would capture the world and incenerate the competitors gone by. The lights shone beautifully in this candlelit window. Each myriad of color illuminated the sparks of imagination. No one else knew that this would change over time.

Nedd, the musician, was followed one day, by the man with one eye. He could not tell what his intentions were, but he knew that he was not safe there anymore. He would escape at all costs. And try to regain his composure if necessary. Though he knew that he would not be able to do this fast enough.

This one-eyed man controlled many different real estate ventures along his harrowing life. One of which was covered by mossed filled agate. It was corroded by time and had jewels that sparkled to the giant clock on the front of the gate. On the outside of the miasma of this castle there came a miracle of great cost. It would change the story in a heartbeat.

The clock was an old visage of a time gone by. It was beyond compare to the challenges of the day. Every hour that it struck, left an imprint of outrageous horror. The townfolk knew that it would ruin their lives it they let it. To multiply an error that would follow themselves through the time paradox that the clock became.

In the meantime, I would visit Nedd and listen to him playing on his melodious harp, to a tune that brought chills to my very marrow. Each stroke of his strum would send me into another fit of rage.

This was another way for me to control the cobwebs of the self-pitious candle that was always sitting in the window. Eyeing everyone and leaving the difference to another passerby. It's mustache would become an eyesore. To everyone traveling through the district in my mind. The most horrific thing to happen in my lifetime. And probably yours if you would let it.

There came three knocks at the side of the window. Blowing out the candle and frustrating the hell out of the people walking by at a vigorous pace. Each knock louder than the last. Each knock making me wonder if this would be the last knock in my twisted little life. These knocks would blow over the competition and leave the smell of a burning rotting corpse that seemed to be melting like swiss cheese.

Sounding off the temple of another man and woman, to taste like ill-gotten lemonade. Later the fashioning would go up and down towards the pen that I am trying to use to write down this story.

The skeletons would end up dancing over my grave by the time this story comes out. And then I will be greatly over my head in shame and transgression. THE END.