#impromtu

“Dont fear the dark, only the dead.”

He...was falling. The elf, who had been so careful in his life, was now falling out of a spire. The lights of his once great and magnificent city was now a blur in his vision, reaching closer to solid ground. Why? How? He didn’t have time to ponder this. He shut his eyes, not daring to look at his impending doom. He reminded conscious, his eyes shut tight. Had he not died? Why didn’t he feel any pain? Slowly, ever so slowly, the elf opened his eyes. He was in a cave. The only light was a small torch near him, stuck in the ground. He shifted to a sitting position, underneath his figure was a rough carving of a summoning circle. Not too uncommon for a dark and eerie cave. He could pick up faint sounds of water dripping, breaking the silence as he tried to collect himself. The ground shook, a grotesque hand breaking free of dirt and rock to grab at his robes. Tattered pieces of skin clinging to its bone. His fear got the better of him, without even a scream, he ran. Not knowing where he was going or where he was, but anywhere would be far better than that room.

Hi Everyone!  

9.15.17 7:30pm until 11pm EST.

I know this session was not suppose to begin until 9pm, but you can jump in anytime!

so... keep ‘em coming. let’s get dirty tonight. Keep them short, I like the 7 words or less thing. But let’s see what happens. (note, not ALL of them will get a drabble, we’ll see what sparks. and I’m going out for like 2 hours, but I’ll be back and i’ll be around after all night so...)

LET”S PARTY!

IMPROMTU #7

Fanals dins la boira arrenglerats a un carrer desert

on els cotxes descansen en el son dels conductors.

Han somniat de dia unes hores tan fredes i humides,

i ara tremolen en la nit dins de vànoves marcides,

no corren les hores en el gran silenci de la mort

que cala sense esperança en el paisatge ert.

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Lanterns in the fog lining on a desert street 

where the cars rest in the drivers’ sleep.

They dreamed a few hours of a day so cold and wet,

and now tremble at night in faded quilts,

do not run the hours in the great silence of death

that creek without hope in the frozen landscape.