mistformsquirrl
2014-05-30, 10:25 PM
So, this is something I wrote of all things as a blog comment. I thought it turned out quite well, and since I haven't ever shared any of my writing here, I thought this might be an OK opportunity.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy it - m(_ _)m
Tiny Ghosts
Millions of luminescent blue-white spectres around the size of a quarter spread across a great dark hall dimly lit by candles, with a high towering double-window at the back of the hall through which the night sky with all the stars and the moon are clearly visible.
The ghosts are like fireflies or faeries. Maybe in 'life' they could not think or feel, but in death those restraints are removed. They flit through bookshelves and around candlesticks, they play in the darkened chandeliers, sometimes they conspire to mischief taking books from the shelves and making them float or fly, or even spreading them out on a favorite chair to gather in their hundreds of thousands. Over time they have learned to read, though what they make of the words is anyone's guess.
They have never known pain, nor suffering, nor deprivation, they do not want for food or shelter, all they know is this strange place and the peculiar compulsion that draws them there; and without a concept of anger or suffering, they have made it their home.
It is at once a very sad place, and at once a very happy place, and for the living something truly incomprehensible.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy it - m(_ _)m
Tiny Ghosts
Millions of luminescent blue-white spectres around the size of a quarter spread across a great dark hall dimly lit by candles, with a high towering double-window at the back of the hall through which the night sky with all the stars and the moon are clearly visible.
The ghosts are like fireflies or faeries. Maybe in 'life' they could not think or feel, but in death those restraints are removed. They flit through bookshelves and around candlesticks, they play in the darkened chandeliers, sometimes they conspire to mischief taking books from the shelves and making them float or fly, or even spreading them out on a favorite chair to gather in their hundreds of thousands. Over time they have learned to read, though what they make of the words is anyone's guess.
They have never known pain, nor suffering, nor deprivation, they do not want for food or shelter, all they know is this strange place and the peculiar compulsion that draws them there; and without a concept of anger or suffering, they have made it their home.
It is at once a very sad place, and at once a very happy place, and for the living something truly incomprehensible.