An experiment that feels ages old now. The fusion of poetry and fantasy narrative featuring the unnamed dark wordsmith.
And then I stood, with the midnight sky to my back and the choked river beyond. A black horse with a tangle of cold flames for a mane that spun in the breeze approached me. I found my hands to be decaying, in the starlight. I could see the frail fragments of trembling fingers beginning to blow away in the wind. So I quickly ripped the wrinkled reeds from an ancient riverbed and wrapped each hand in dry thatch gauntlets. I mounted the ebony steed, as it was my own, yet for a moment I did not recognize anything. That was the true darkness, when everything was void in my mind. Even as I began to ride into the lightless land ahead, I realized that it was far brighter than before. I came upon the morrow sunless. Clouds rolled overhead with roaring thunder, bursts of lightning, hundreds of tears. A pond formed in a previous rainstorm, I paused to look in this mirror for a moment. The hood of my cloak concealed my eyes, my chin speckeled with dirt and blood. From my pocket I drew a pint of ink, and a silver laden notebook with leather cover. My transport waited patiently for me to finish this thought, as I fumbled with my makeshift bandages. As I add a fleeting thought to the note, the obsidian ears twitch from quiet crackling. In my ears soon after, comes these sounds. I hold my reins as they grow faster and closer. Why I do not disappear is unknown to me. Bursting from the bushes is at first what appears to be a spectre, pale faced and wearing a white gown. The girl underneath is terrified, she is of no age to be wandering this place. She stares at me with horror, but does not run away, but to me. She embraces the horse with tears, something behind her roars and bursts through in the same manner.He is not interesting, a man red of face, suddenly blue upon seeing me.
He names, but with hesitation and anger;"The Writer."
I reply with disdain, "you may leave fool."The ground trembles as another bolt crosses the heaven's mighty smoke warships. And already he has left, terrified of my scorn. Pathetic, word should not scare man. I look down to the ghostly maiden. She stares at the place that man once stood.
"Child, fear me. Return to that place, do not kneal at the side of a monster."I felt no sorrow as she begins to cry. And she reminds me of where I once stood, at the edge of another's horse, begging for freedom.
"I have said my piece."She spins to face me, and I pull forward on my saddle. I would wait days for her choice, but a minute is all she needs. And then she clamours on and wraps her arms around me.
"Writer, why let me choose?"
I do not know truly. Guilt? Pitty? A giddy longing for a companion?
"Mortals whimsy seems to have touched even me." And for a moment, I felt a smile flicker over my lips.