So this first little piece is the result of me feeling a little depressed at the time I started writing (the act of putting words to this seems to have exorcised that.) It's a bleak couple of paragraphs without a title.
The sounds stalled, halted, died. Had his computer frozen? Or, he wondered, leaning in to look at the screen, had time itself ceased to flow? The youth frowned, tapped the mouse. Something was awry. Considerably so. he thought, gasping softly as he saw the curtains had billowed out from the window with the wailing wind, and stopped in mid air. A violent shudder ran down his spine, and as he made to stand his chair vanished from beneath him and he stumbled onto a carpet that was no longer there. Instead he grazed his hands grasping for sudden purchase upon rocks that littered a bleak, grassy ground. The grass itself was dark, and damp from a heavy mist which hung all around, making the night blacker and thicker than it might otherwise be. The moon shone, full evidently, but scant comfort as it's ethereal glow merely made his surroundings all the more eerie. He stood, a little shaky on his feet, and tried to make sense of his whereabouts. But all he actually sensed was a growing feeling of dread. A terror that gripped his bowels and sent black tendrils snaking through his soul. Soul? What kind of thought was that? Certainly archaic for this child of modern technology. Nonetheless, right now, he fervently believed that his soul was trembling somewhere deep within him.
So he moved on, leaving the point of his entry into this strange world. Pools of blue, pupils almost as wide as the irises scanning dead trees, sickly lichen hanging from cracking boughs. In spite of constant, almost numb stumbling over the rocks, a voice in his mind whispered to him to run. He listened, feeling that the voice he was hearing was his own, echoing in his own ears without speaking, but he listened, and ran.
His head left his shoulders before he'd taken three steps, and had hit the ground by the fourth. The rest of him followed.
A shadowy figure loomed over him from out of the mist, looking very much the proverbial Grim Reaper. Except, the Grim Reaper was not said to resemble the countenance of their victims exactly. Yet here it seemed that the boy was looming over his own decapitated body, wearing a hooded raven-black cloak and holding a staff of bone with a wicked curved blade attached to it's end, what would appear to be his own blood gently slicking off it.
Gaunt features, a deathly parody of those of the head that lay nearby in the grass, drew into a smile.
A fell wind picked up the edges of his cloak and sent long dead leaves, and the mist spiralling around him as he prepare to exit the Unspace of his own devising. Preparing to take his doppleganger's place, to continue the cycle.




