The field was wide rather than long. Dead rather than alive. There was no farmer wanting to buy it. No one played in it. There was no sign of life other than a rock and a solitary tree. It had no leaves. Nor many branches. Just a thick brown trunk with one thick branch . Around this tree was dead. Bones found too often. A pice of rope hung loosely around the branch. I sit and stare at his rope. I sit on a rock in the rain. The rope gives me ideas. Stories i must tell. Poems that make no sense. I started to make my own ideas. The rope didn't like. It put an idea to me. Too dreadful to write. I went my own way but never moved. I always wrote under the rope. It soon got control. The stories i wrote. Until one day i refused. I put down my pen and looked at the rope. It gave me new hope in a way i didn't know. A way out of writing the tales. I tried to back off. It seemed too much. But the stories i wrote. Where too dastardly to show. I buried the book. I tightened the rope. To ward people away. My only job
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the ride home And Other Short Stories
HorreurA few horror stories written by me. I know not all of them are good but im working on it☺ Shout out to verrycooljam. Good mate of mine. Very good writer. Go follow him.
