It would come to my mind as it countines to race and the dream that would project that I will begin to record this homely narrative. As I would sit here with the blank pages staring back, the thoughts that would come as in the welcoming sleep which is there among the mind and the faith that one had been brought up to believe states that it is a sin to which is written; staring back as death waits at the door. From the points looking at the dark among the shadowed mind, in a blank page which is being written -- a documentation of what was their life after death. Pages over time as they are looking at the pages in the journals and the dreams that are written out upon pages of flesh and blood. In the words as they are written -- from this would stare back at me as a black figure which appears as a bird. A raven. This raven that is there looking over the ones whom are still asleep yet they are without warmth to the touch. In the pages of the journals kept upon the shelves in the room, when they would see as it is there with those whom are not dead nor nor dreaming -- within a sleep-like coma where they would lay without the nightmares that are haunting them because they are written out in the pages of journals upon the shelves in the room; the shelves within the psych and soul of the tormented. From inside the dreams that are standing withing the libraries of forgotten and lost time; of words coming from I as they are said not to be written within the pages staring back as a museum exhibit of the thoughts between the grotesque and the horror which is there among those who are within the coma-like sleep. Inside the shelves of books where the nightmares are recorded; where the sleeping are there yet not dead nor dreaming -- the horrors yet are among the ones of the undescribed. One would see the white of the snows outside of the windows, the winter as it would come from the nightfall of the daylight sleep. Winters -- as it would come from 13 winters and the nightmare as it passes from year to year as they are recorded upon the pages of a mind staring back at the pages which are there. It would be among the winters that are seen from the darkness that one would see; the horrors and fears one has written within the pages of the journals upon the shelf in the room. It comes in the darkness within the cold of winter, among the night where one would feel the cold of the dead upon them. The black figure with the soulless and empty as ice, looking at the writer within the light of the room which is coming from the shadow of the waning moon. This is where I've seen myself writing the naumes which appear in the books of the desceased -- but from they are looking back and saying taht they are not yet among the descease. Though one could feel their flesh of their dreamless bodies sleeping, cold to the touch with the appearence of being deceased. Within the appearence of death as they would see the journals in the room; those journals -- looking back at would be the nightmare. Among the words which one tries to find the truth within them; dreams as it is staring back at them -- as would I found myself in the room with the dead. Only I could describe this as the words that are attempted to find, just that all is there would be among the unknown. It would be only after the sanity which is the very last of this would come along the thoughts of a tormented mind. Nor I would even begin to record the thoughts as this narration; if it could be found as such from the thoughts and complete gospel of the horror between the sleep and deceased. Among the recorded thoghts as they are staring upon the pages of a journal from a nightmare which is within the sleep of those who remain in a tormented comatose state. From inside the darker understanding that is there; written as one would still see the black figure without a soul as blankly it would stare back. The library that I describe could be in the best described as one that would appear in the setting of an old vampire or a gothic novel; the lights which are there coming from the shining of lunar emissions. In the impending questions between faith and madness are the fine line between the one or the other, the knowing as it is when this becomes even more vivid and real. Words which are written reflect the tormenting of the soul would be seen in the eyes of the one whom documented the dream as it is in the mind. The letters and journals are staring back upon their soulless state, though their human soul is written in them. Journals and volumes of them within the shelves in the room among the library of bones. Morbidly it would be said that in the time of the deceased what is left behind are the words written in the pages that are kept over time. Time is what would remain ageless as death itself, and would be written that time is the only thing that is immortal -- time is always immortal though we stare at own mortality when we would fall asleep and slip into where we begin to dream. Only that it would come within a period of time, a period of eternities as one would see the nightmares written between faith, horror, and second chance. Of the words as they are written that time is the only thing as one would would fall asleep; slipping into their tormenting state as they would fall into the beginning of the dream. Among the descent of death it would come along the thoughts as their nightmares are in documentation within the journals upon the shelves in the room where it would come as graphic and darkly cold as they had met their end -- saying their black goodbye. It'd come from the words of morbid curiousity as one would document the details of their darkly vague dream as one would hear their own teeth grinding. From as the darkness goes and winters would come when the dream descends; the prayer had been spoken for the darkness to go, but it is there where it would appear inviting. As I would turn my head from the typewriter, what would be there greeting me with its black soulless eyes would be a figure which would have the appearance of a raven. Perched quietly upon the top of the bookselves in the room. From the words and gospels coming in mind as one would stand between their demised and dreams that are spoken. As it had been said, words written among nightmares are taken from the many forms -- among hell and faith that had been taught among the congregation as one proceeds in line. Even if when I would try to turn my head; I still see the nightmares are they are painted black. In the blacker and cold as it is staring among the coma and who are nor dead nor dreaming. Record of that had been written over time as they had been in their burial and the time of demise would come as the nightmare. One would see as they are looking back at the journals that are upon the shelves in the room. Understanding that would come as the gospel of the unsound mind as the personal bible is written; kept for oneself. Pages from what are staring back as a museum exhibit, one of which appears of the bizarre and of the queerly grotesque. Revelations from the morbid beginning, as one would come to being in the description among the thoughts as it would be looking back at the pages within a journal. Lamented which is as it would -- in the knowing that is there; from the old hallways and ornate walls. Descending down from the horrors that would come after all had been said; documentation among the thoughts and pages of a journal. Among the words as they are there, while looking from the windows among the structures of the grotesque and disturbing where the library which I was looking at the journals were all built from human bones. In pages as it is there; the dreams and nightmares come into the graphic truth. Among the ink as it is written in blood, the pages that are of written record from the nightmares among the dead. Record of knowing -- from the knowing after the sleep what brought the dreams of torment as it is in the mind. The voices in the head telling them that it is fine to go a little mad -- as they would see the pages of the journals upon the shelves in the library of bones; from the recorded that would come as one would see the black figure looking back at them. In the passing years among time, that death had been the constant reminder where the nightmares within the coma as it is descending from the thoughts as one is in the maelstorm. Of dark and the forlorned relevation that it would come from within the tormented psyche; staring back from the eyes of the soulless black figure. When it would be among the documented pages from the eyes of the ones who suffer from an emotional illness, the nightmares which would be there with them as they remain among the library of bones. As it would become written upon bibles in rows upon the shelves in the room, in the cold appearence as it would come from the touch of death -- eyes who would observe from the darkness below the abyss. Only as it appears from the journals it is written, when it would come among the details of the queer and quaint. Nightmares as they are written. Nightmares. I would see the tormenting of the psyche and soul -- as it would be within the journals upon the shelves in the room. As black as it would be so cold; that after no one can see after the fading thoughts over time. From the words of what could not be described, from the various dreams as they are written on pages of journals and letters which are in volumes -- the volumes of books as they are written. These books and journals which have the nightmares written in them -- the nightmare the deceased had commited their bodies and released their spirits. Words that cannot be fully described that well as one would find themselves asleep in a hospital bed and the details from in the dream are strongly vivid in the mind. It would still be inside the mind as it would come to be as hell is home; from the bed in the hospital one can see the eyes of the black figure looking back until one finds that they had never left the library of bones. From in the sleep they would fade into from the eyes as they would see -- then slowly they see themselves fading to black. The shapeless figure would continue to look at the one reading the journals upon the shelves in the room where the touch of death would come with an icely cold. Time would be the only thing ageless and immortal as everything that dies, while it would be from the bones that this grotesque structure was born. It is from this that one would become too frightened to describe the details but one must keep going. Time would stand among the thoughts that have been written, the graphic documentation of thoughts tormented by nightmares as they are written into pages of a grotesque gospel. Their remains of the bones which were becoming the construction as it stands before my eyes -- the places where the journals where they have their nightmares documented are stored. Within the books staring back at me upon the shelves in the room with the eyes of the soulless black figure. From its frozen and soulless gaze that I would see as they are looking back -- from this would be seen among the souls which are written out into their nightmares before they had died, the dreams which were from the sleep of their deathbed -- their dying wishes. Pages as they were -- as they read into their torments and the minds of those who suffer from the emotional distress and the illness which is between the mind; between the questions of sanity and losing their own touch of reality. I'd put into the words describing the horror as it is in the mind; remains as it proceeds to fuck with the subliminal mind. Abomination that is on the bookshelves in themselves that it would be seen from the eyes of the black figure. Not even one as myself could come to the graphic narration as this would be in the details as I would find the words to describe them. From this that I have them written upon the pages as they are written upon as the fingers nervously run across the keys of the typewriter. Darkness as it would surface from the windows that it would show that night had dawned, from the words among documentation as it is there among the ones who are no longer with the ones who are still here. One would see as these written pages appear -- as they are written in the pages of a journal that haunts the mind as one would slip between the waking and the dream. Nor it would even come close to how one can even begin to relate the narrative dream as it would graphically appear as the queer gospel and grotesque truth. Only as in the wording written here to be from the bowels of hell themselves. It'd come to the various dreams reflecting the uncertain that is would come as the pages staring back as in the macabre museum exhibit of sorts. Pages as they are written would come within the journals as they are looking back at from the shelves in the room -- thoughts within the lifeless are among the ageless as the black figure when it is looking back. When it would be as I would allow my eyes to wander from the keyboard of the typewriter, it would come from the soulless eyes that would reflect of the nightmares as they are written in the back of the pages in forms of journals being of the comatosed and deceased. Descriptions from the dreams that are there should not be so evident; though as they are when they appear upon the shelves in the room within the library of bones. The knowing within the horror among the mind which comes around as the full circle gathering in the darkness and damage descending. In these words what stands among the queer and bizarre descriptions of the mind at it would remain; from the question that are without the anwsers one seeks to find. Troubled minds as it would be among the witness of the black figure -- with its ghostly eyes gazing back without the soul. Nor that one would even see what it is within the tormenting dreams; as I would blankly examine the journals in the room within the nightmares of the deceased that had been written before their demise. A dying wish where they would have their dreams documented upon their deathbed. Among the queerly grotesque it would be -- as one would walk around the halls and the floors which had all been constructed of human and animal bones. Within the various thoughts as it would come among the written -- staring at the pages as it came to be written, as I would stare at a typewriter where I would allow the narrative to come forth from the mind as it is written there in its macabre form. From inside of the dreams of the decease that one would see the detail of the passages about the black figure staring back, the raven. Ageless writings among the cryptic dreams as they would appear -- when it would come among the blackness of the nightfall; inked and written upon pages and in the dreams as would be there as they would appear nor dead or dreaming. The jarring thought as I would see my sleeping area upon the bench near this quaint type writer -- that it would be where I would see myself in the sleeping state as I am typing this narrative out in detail. It would have the appearence of the death-like cold in the room as there would be the walls and shelves which were all made of human bones. As it would be recording preceeding the daylight sleep; one would say that I had gone mad when they would come to the conclusion of this narrative being written out. As this is said I'd describe how it is from the details of the dreams among the deceased, while it would appear as the volumes and pages staring back as ageless as time itself. It would come to be written from the gospels as the dreams after the desceased have been inked -- that the black figure had been the one who been the morbid curator of the library of bones. As it would come from their dreams before death, they would be the ones walking through the hallways within the library of bones -- over time that it would come from the depths of the ageless. From these that I awaken; where I would be staring aimlessly at the typewriter. The hauntingly vivid detail that it would stand among the thoughts and dreams within the sleep of the mind. From in the pages as one would study them over time as one would fall asleep within their awakened bodies, from it would be in the slee one would feel the presence of the black figure. It would come among the dreams and nightmares of the mind as they are found in documentation, and the question that is there when many written pages that are of which is evident. In the words and question that is where the pages are kept on the journals in the shelves upon the room, the record within the journals and letters as they are among the pillars of the dead and the library of bones. Even within the theather of sleep where the dreams are projected. As it would appear among the grosteque in the details that it would come as the exhibit of the macabre. In the ageless words as it is there one would see within the writings and cryptic dreams that would be of the feathered curator within the library of bones as it brings in more remains to add to its structure of the grotesque.
Authors notes: Those of you who left me some strong reviews on this story thank you, but the one who did the unreadable comment -- that is really cowardly. This story is one that was the set up for longer stories to come but it was not going to be as long as "A Cemetery Dream." This is the first in a trilogy of short stories, "Places of the Cold" and "Lake of Flames" on my diary-x journal are the rest of the trilogy. This one does have a place in the world of horror as Monette says, the reason I did a story like this is to see what comes out of my own imagination -- a skeletal raven that stares at one in the shadows after they've died is the echo of the thing. The Library itself is a character of the story. Horror the thing about the genre is that you don't need definate characters to scare the living crap out of a reader.
Chilling, uncanny . . . a nightmarish write.
Sandy
Reviewed by Monette Bebow-Reinhard
4/13/2003
I'm afraid I couldn't read the whole thing because I kept looking for the identity of the writer, while that is perhaps the whole point of the story, and it is so intriguingly written that I wanted to read the whole thing, but just couldn't. Perhaps the title needs changing, perhaps I just need more of a feel of what I'm looking for here. Perhaps I'm just too character-oriented for this. It is a level beyond Poe, a definite style that has a place in the world. Keep expressing that which few take the time for.
I really enjoyed this. It read like a sermon. A very unusual and refreshing style in this narrative. Certainly, the raven calls up Edgar Allen Poe in my mind. But this isn't Poe. Your mixture of content and style is uncommon. You work up a nice fervor in this narrative. It's very poetic. From what I've read, this is your best story on AD. It reads like poetry.
This is indeed a great page, a great story told. You have the ability to seek through the minds of the dead.
I have watched a TV program called "Cross Over" in which the host could call upon the dead to communicate with the living through him. Don't call me silly, but I do believe this - the dead are not really dead, they have just closed one book of journals of their lives, and then proceeded to making the next book with new chapters.
You have a unique talents in bringing these stories to life. Very well-done indeed!
Nickolaus,
Man, your writing reminds me so much of Poe that my flesh literally crawls in a mixture of fear and delight. You are a gifted wordsmith, my man. In my worst (best?) nightmares, I have strolled the narrow isles of 'the library of bones'....
Thanks for the ride...
The Butcher's Boy
- 2011 Readers Favorite Award Silver Medal Winner in Horror - Fiction
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