Red Snow: Chapter One"Oy, Breen bet thou art too scared to walk to the old tower in the ruins and pull the bell thirteen times at midnight like the legend says happened.""What do you bet, Aren?""I bet my knife, against yours , doest thou accept?""Aye"And so Breen had taken the stupidist dare ever. That night accompanied by his best friend Aren, he made his way to the bell tower. Snow begain to fall, and Breen felt as if he were watched. The eyes of all those slain seemed to peer at him from the dark. They tread carefully as if worried they'd wake the dead. Creeping up the tower stairs Breen heard something, it sounded like the pigions in the bell tower back home, but bigger. He gathered his courage and pulled the rope. Once, twice, until he had sounded it thriteen times."Hah, now you owe me your knife, Aren. ....Aren?"
Red snow: PrologueSnow fell thickly that fateful night. The church bell tolled the midnight hour and then once more signaling the beginning... of the end...The white snow had been painted red that day, oh so many years ago, now. Entire villages lost, burned, but according to lore, in the ruins at the edge of the forest of night, the bell tower still stands, and in that tower is the sole survivor of that massacre.
GaiaLike the arms of my motherthe forest surrounds meI am hiddensnug within her green sleevesThough her moods are the weather,her love is all I can see,I sleep inmy soft bed of leaves.
RipplesSoft sighs as wind blowsside by side mother daughterripple the water
Secret danceSee in the garden,dancing merrily, lovelysky-bound butterflies
Dreams in the RainSleep, rain is fallingsoftly, slipping down through dreamswater for the mind...and food for thought thattantalizes the soul, hintsat things yet to be...Possibilitiesare paths not yet chosen andthe dreams not yet dreamt.
Directions of a WandererWhere ever the wind doth blowlead me, take me,I will go...Right of left and Left of rightonward and upward,into the night...Conventions thou shalt leave behind theeso doest thou dares'follow me?
HiddenI put my hand to the walland years of dust came offwhen I took my hand away,revealing the beauty within,a sparkling jewel of color in a world of gray,people hurrying on with their day,their unending, forever flowing, list of things to do,I stood apart from the flood of humanityand reveled in the secret garden I had found,where memories soared like so many beautifulcolorful winged creatures,I opened the door and left the worldof never-ceasing schedules, of stagnantgray pools, pretending to progress, but neverchanging so much like clock-work,I walked down the halls of mysecret garden, brushing free thebeauty of the unpredictable and baskingin the light pouring from thecolors surrounding me,stopping only to chase butterfliesmade of memory, melodiesin flight,until someone opened the doorand caused reality to come and drag me awayand weave me back into the gray tapestry of routine,I await my chance to break freeand run back to my hidden paradise
WishHow she wished for wings of whiteto soar the skyby day or night,she wished to fly