someone's favorite song tells you a lot about them
ask any older person their favorite song
and you will look into the eyes of a younger soul
and your youth represents your greatest period of hope
when the world was more exciting
and the future was bright
certain people right certain kinds of songs
the lyrics tell you their values, desires, their deepest thoughts
and we listen to music that resonates with us
music is written in reaction to the world around us
we believe what we listen to
and our favorite thing to listen to
is our truest self
About the Creator
Hufflecup
I want nothing more than to dedicate my life to writing, so I figured I would start here to test the waters. I will be submitting stories to as many communities as possible.
Reader insights
Outstanding
Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
Top insights
Compelling and original writing
Creative use of language & vocab
Easy to read and follow
Well-structured & engaging content
Excellent storytelling
Original narrative & well developed characters
Eye opening
Niche topic & fresh perspectives
Heartfelt and relatable
The story invoked strong personal emotions
On-point and relevant
Writing reflected the title & theme
At the Sheltering Doors
The doors, they always scrambled for the doors first. When they arrive and always by night it was a race to desperately bar the creatures entry to the house in the slow crawl of numb feet that the dream would impose upon him. He never seemed fast enough and the creatures uninhibited by the same constraints always made the doors first. The houses in his dream-scapes vary night to night - Some are mansions, others shacks and some are distorted contortions of his childhood home which burned down when he was ten. But the doors are always the same – frail, loose hinged and never could be fully shut. The creatures too vary – twisted and corrupted forms of animals and people familiar to him: family dogs preternaturally swollen to twice their size with rotting coats of mange and slicked damp with dark liquids of decay. The people too were bloated vestiges of ones vaguely familiar to him but whose names escape him. Their eyes gorged wide with dark blood which streaked their mottled faces in crusted trails like lost rivers which hung from their chins swinging in ropy columns beneath paling yellowed teeth. To let them break through would mean death. This he knew with grave certainty. At the door was desperation and panic as their stench emanated forth, sickly and pungent like vomit and mold and ending in a gruesome exhalation like cancer, the stench sticky and clinging invading his nostrils and lungs never to be expunged. Then in the sudden waking he never knew if he repelled them or not.
By Kevin Rolly3 days ago in Horror
Comments (1)
I think this one is my favorite so far. As a singer/songwriter/poet, myself, in the autumn of my life, (stage name Ronni Right), this one was far reaching into the soul of what I do. LOVED this!