When removed from society, living in deep forestation creates an atmosphere of strange, deliberate melancholy.
Verdant graveyard swarmed in colonies of life, a beautiful opposition to the mangled flesh.
The first one was harried and esoteric. There was no glory or sport or thrill, but a descension, a spiral that revealed its final chain, and in that chain lay broken the sacred tenant of society.
It was a man, never knew his name. No family to this John Doe, no callers to break the wall of brush that he used to hide himself away. In truth, he was already dead however many years ago, I simply expedited his path.
He was a large man, planning required extensive backups and redundancies even with my inexperience. If I failed to properly break the binding tethers of this life from his neck, he would lunge for mine.
His feet shuffle against the wood of his home, scrubbing away the grain.
His body dragged out a similar dance, painting broad strokes of coppery wash.
His home of wood and stone smoldered and burned gently, an orange haze that warmed the cold off the bark of the nearby pines.
The fourth revealed my building prowess, I had begun to quickly assess the patterns I'd need to exploit and leave smaller gaps for my own peril.
They slept soundly, a nice couple of the name Paulman. Which was the first and last time I heard that name.
The husband tried to stop the inevitable but I embedded a hatchet into his mind.
His wife woke up in a haggard, groggy way. As I knew she would having observed her do the same thing to stimuli I created for them. So sluggish to wake, I am too.
They both rest easy now as they did in this life.
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RandomA mess of stuff that won't fit elsewhere. Some are pretty absurdist, no direct continuity unless stated (doubtful on that, these are meant to be one-off poems/stories). I like to explore different styles of writing in small works like this, so some...
