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The sleek, black birds perched atop the arthritic limbs of trees once filled with life. Now winter’s frost had stripped them bare, leaving all which tried to hide there exposed and vulnerable to the roaming eyes. The eyes which never blinked.

My heart clamored faster against my chest with every step I advanced down the dirt path toward the decrepit house which exemplified all the stories I’d grown to love within the past five years. This was where the pendulum struck down the house of Usher, where Lenore brought forth the tell-tale heart, and the ravens…

Their beady eyes as black as coal frowned at me as I crossed below. The sadistic twist of my soul wished for darker skies and explosive lightning bolts to invade the skies overhead, give me the true mood of this place where haunted tales linger on the porch and in the kitchen. Blood stains ringed the floors.

I caught a raven peering at the grumpy clouds sulking above us all, and for a moment, there was a twinge of fear that perhaps he could read my thoughts,

A whir caught my ear, and I turned to see a few more of the dark birds soaring in and settling onto branches along the road from which I’d come. There were more and more than I wished to count, but it may have been my own paranoia amplifying their presence and multiplying them by three.

The ravens spoke not a sound, as I treaded softly to the wooden house, leaning to one side in its saddest state of mind. Why would you bother coming this far to see the waste that I am? It mumbled, its words garbled by the stroke which paralyzed its right side and caused it to slump just so.

At the edge of its first step, I sat and observed the ravens, now an army of one hundred or more, stationed stoically atop their posts, watching me back.

There were no words to describe the ghost which crept from behind and entered my soul, bestowing the eyes which gave me the light to see this place as it once had been in another time – the house where the deepest, darkest thoughts of our minds were liberated to wreak havoc on the page. This house was Poe’s imagination, but not his home.

Caw. Caw. Caw.

The call of theĀ ravens echoed through the trees. Barely a whisper at first, but growing stronger and louder against the incoming breeze. I drank in their cries of “intruder,” closing my eyes and then awaiting their inevitable attack on the stranger who had intruded upon their dream.


– Written by Miss A on May 24, 2012


About 365 Things to Write About

I'm inspired by almost anything and everything creative - nature, architecture, art, words, music...I like to roam along streets, through foreign countries, and within my mind where the world is full of endless possibilities. I dream of being an idealist, but I've experienced too many harsh realities for that wish to ever be true. Therefore, I look for the hope and the good in small nuances, and I express my thoughts and feelings about the world around me on pages and canvases whenever I can.

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