August 21, 2011 Features

As I was browsing through the many great artworks by TBF members, I realized it’s fun to let your imagination run wild and make a story that connects using various artworks.  This tale has a tragic ending.

Stairway to Heaven by Smudgers Art

Strasburg’s Night by Igor Zenin

feathers on the wind by Alenka Co

SKYCLAD SWORD by ArtofMorgaine

The Deeper You Go by Laurie Search

cool breeze by Ingz

Fairy Tale ~ Chateau Noisy by Jospehine Pugh

The Key to Many Hearts by James Leader

I can’t decide if I’ll let you save my life or if I’ll drown… by Tracey Mac

I am what you made me by strawberries

Message in a Bottle by Tamarra BaVincio

Night Walker by cosimopiro

Don’t be too dismissive of shifting sounds in the night
where persistent scratching on frosted window
may be the talons of ghoulish intentions;
where disembodied breathing that chills our spinal chord
be a madman’s razor laughter…
… and what of those twigs crunching blindly behind us
like brittle bones of curious wanderers,
as we walk innocently through a misty forest,
are they the creeping footsteps of a dark hunter’s quest
for beating hearts to feed upon?
Don’t be too casual
of shadows that float by in the corners of moonlight trickery,
elusive masked phantoms of light they may be,
sent to distract us from rational thought.
And that howling wind whistling a blood curdling tune
through the cracks of our stairways to Paradise,
might not that be the approach of sinister wants
to begin our dark imaginings?

Look behind the doors and under beds,
put the stuffed dolls in cupboards and cover the clown
before you lay your head to slumber,
for ruthless teeth await to chatter over flesh
and cacti tongues long to prickle our hopes
to suck and empty us of our deepest desires.
Draw the curtains,
for unseen eyes in the cover of darkness
watch our naïve comfort
ready for sleep to take us to their haunts
to peel our skin back to parade their skilful conquest;
and searching fingers pressing,
seeking our open mouths to slip the moans of ghosts
down our vulnerable throats
to possess our dreams and make them their own.
There be skeletons here,
of past dreams and childhood fancies,
that rise from the depths of blood filled oceans
to claim back flesh
before rot crawled and stripped it from sensual delights.

When alone and you feel warm breath upon your neck
but sends a chill from the grave to the end of your toes,
do you dare look behind
or do you close your eyes
and become a nightwalker ready to face your true fears?

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