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The grandfather clock strikes 13 o’clock as I gaze in gallant fashion across the blacks lawns and moonlit orchards beyond the hickory trimmed windows. Daring to see the peasant spirits lapping at the windows. Awaiting an angry tide of spades and branches to collide with tinted Spanish glass as the revolt against their master leads the proletariat into the house.
I wait and watch the brambles flutter and pray from the figure of a translucent soldier, roaming for a thousand years to find his lost battalion. I peer into the dusk and imagine ancient screams and musket shots piercing the ringing silence.
I jot my unseen sightings into my journal of spectres and onwards I march, to find spirits anew in ruined churchyards or ramshackle castles. A nomad soulfinder, or a fraudulent fictionalist?
More randomly my kind of thing.
It was just about the words, not the story.
Last line was horribly out of place, however.
> Was that meant to be the most pretentious thing i'll ever read?
Pretty much.
I'm hoping there's another entry on its way.
The grandfather clock strikes 13 o’clock as I gaze in gallant fashion across the blacks lawns and moonlit orchards beyond the hickory trimmed windows. Daring to see the peasant spirits lapping at the windows. Awaiting an angry tide of spades and branches to collide with tinted Spanish glass as the revolt against their master leads the proletariat into the house.
I wait and watch the brambles flutter and pray from the figure of a translucent soldier, roaming for a thousand years to find his lost battalion. I peer into the dusk and imagine ancient screams and musket shots piercing the ringing silence.
I jot my unseen sightings into my journal of spectres and onwards I march, to find spirits anew in ruined churchyards or ramshackle castles. A nomad soulfinder, or a fraudulent fictionalist?