Forgotten Songs

It's been a long time since I've been to this abode, and even longer since I've finished a story. So many songs that faded into the wind, never quite reaching their full beauty.

I dig in the hidden places, and find scraps of them where they have been abandoned.

Beneath Winter's icy grip, the snowdrop is the first to emerge through his chill fingers. With the delicate strength which comes from the patience learnt from biding its time through the dead months, it blooms, heralding spring and bringing healing - a beacon of hope.

But it is not these earthly things that we should fear. They are only temporary, and will soon pass, for all things are bound by Time's stately march. Thus is the balance of the world always righted, when that which disturbs the balance passes from this earth.

The blood-curdling screams echoed through the empty corridors, bouncing off the cold, grey walls in the deadened silence, making it worse a thousand-fold. It was a scream of pure agony, a cry of mindless terror, a desperate plea for release, and a hopeless longing for freedom. It was the scream of the trapped souls and the lost souls, the scream of both those that cowered down before it and those who sat stiffly and unflinchingly as it washed over them, the scream of the hopeful and the hopeless. It was my scream.

Silence is darkness, darkness is evil. Shadows prowl in silent stealth. Where silence always reigns, no life can thrive. Bright souls wither and fade, leaving only an empty husk. Even that soon crumbles to dust, to be blown away on the wind. Death comes in the night to claim its victims. None can hear their voiceless screams and silent thrashings. That bright spark of life quenched, leaving a void of silent darkness. And so everything ends.

There was absolutely nothing I could do.
Lies, lies, lies. All lies.
A splintering sound as the glass shattered and crashed to the floor.
Drip, drip, drip.
The crystal shards stained by the red pulsing of life.

Flaming balls of otherworldly dust streaked across the dark heavens, leaving a luminescent trail in their wake. Some exploded under the intense heat of entering the atmosphere, showering the earth with light. It was a sight no one alive had witnessed before. There had to be at least a hundred "stars" raining down on earth a second. A meteor storm. Even the glow of suburban lights could not outshine the splendour of the celestial display.

An owl screamed in the still air - a cry of death from the Mistress of the Night. Lisha awoke with a jolt. From the looks of it, it was only a few hours past midnight. She tried to go back to sleep, but she couldn't. There was something wrong with the night. The very air felt evil.

How deep did the earth go? Maybe forever. Maybe it ended in a fiery pit, where nothing survived. If so, were the Gods born there? Did they once tread this path in their journey to the surface of the mortal world? It gave her no comfort, to be following a path that only the Gods have used.

Too many. And many more still. How many have been left to fade over the years? How many stories untold, forgotten? Always, I write. And always, something draws me away. When I return, I find I've forgotten how much I enjoy the magic of words. I feel a yearning to weave dreams once again. Why is it that I can't bring my creation to a close? Am I not serious enough? Not motivated enough? What is it that differentiates a writer from a wanna-be-writer?

I must write. I will write. I will bring one of my dreams to a satisfactory ending, and I won't embark on a new story until one has closed.