GHOST TOWN – OUR WORLD


A dream is a dream and a story is a story; whatever has happened, it is done and has already become an episode of long ago.
Many of us have memories of a time that once used to be, others, perhaps, have memories of a friend that once went away. But sometimes, during the hard times, a dream can become a miracle, for you never miss June as you do in January, you never long for July as much as in dark cold February and who wouldn’t remember summer during winter’s cold and frozen winds?
We all have places where we often escape to, we all have our memories, we all have our songs. It is said and it is written that we all need to dream and forget the dark images in which the ghastly shadows are sheltered…
As I was driving home one night in late December , the snow began to fall and soon after I lived a nightmare I will always remember , the darkest of them all.
The snow was coming down in droves and the frost was sticking to my windscreen. I felt as if I were lost in the middle of nowhere. Then, before me, when the storm at last subsided, I saw an awesome sight.
I stopped the car and took a frantic look around me. That's when the engine died and no matter how much I tried, the wretched motor still refused to ignite.
A sense of menace loomed in the pale moonlight and I had never felt so helpless and so lonely, so frightened. That sinking feeling of despair will always haunt me.
I found myself in a ghost town, deadly white and frozen in the dreary silence of the winter darkness.
Ghost town… Nothing there; just empty windows staring at you wherever you go.
Ghost town…dead and cold burial ground of secrets and untold tales.
Only Heaven has knowledge of what becomes of people when the wild wind blows.
A door crashed open spilling light and raucous laughter. And in the moonlit street and in the beam of light a shadow turned up.
The sound of shuffling feet, the slowly shape coming closer; it seemed mysteriously familiar and how I screamed when the moonlight briefly fell upon its features and then I stared at my own face.
The air was getting ever colder. The whole place seemed to be touched with mortality and the roaring of the wind turned into an odd, incomprehensible song. I could hear tens of wistful sounds calling out to me.
Suddenly, I saw it, moving like a flame, with eyes like a flash of lightening; yellow eyes were glowing like the neon lights; glittering sparkles, the spotlights of the city nights.
The town was a jungle, a prison one could never escape from. I felt I was forever trapped in the alleys. It was a nightmare, a horrible dream; some of us will dream it forever. What a horrible feeling; to look around the corner and try not to scream again.
My patience was fading. How could I tame this wild thing?
The echo of a strange laughter tore ominously through the silence. I couldn't move. I was standing numb and frozen, waiting to see what would happen next. I could hear muffled noises coming, voices growing louder, building irritation and I was trembling in an evergrowing terror; my whole world was falling, going crazy and there was no escaping then.
It was a ghost town, a haunted place, with eternal winter locked in cold embraces of ice.
The long, long breezes blow down the sky and, from a window covered with steam, weary eyes are cast to the empty alleys.
Everything is quiet in the lonesome light of the solitary, frozen moon that sleeps endlessly above the old castle on the cliff. The ghastly image of the Scottish castle rises from the grey mist of the past like a forgotten nightmare in a deserted mind. The fragrance of times when the sun was warm with love and peace, softening as the day grew on and dazzling in streaks of gold is gone. Now the days are bleak and the sunsets have grown slight.
Spectral creatures haunt in the death of night and the castle, moaning as if bursting into floods of self-sympathetic tears with confusing sorrow and irritation. Their desperate eyes seem to be trying to cling to reality, to give life to those who have lost it, remembering the violent delights that had violent ends.


Copyrighted © Sorana Salomeia, Iasi, Romania