Stuff I have written for school.

Oh nose everything talks

(Supposed to be based off of gothic literature.) 

Thursday is the day, early is the hour, cold is the morning. There is frost in the air, on the ground, in the sky, and clouds of ice hang suspended above the Earth. November is the month, and a sliver of pearl is pasted on the night, on the cold, on the morning, and it is Thursday, and your footsteps crackle along the frozen street, and you blow on your hands to stop them turning blue as the night. You are walking to a house, The House, an old house with peeling wallpaper and cracked and grimy windows, tiles missing from the tumbling inwards hole in the roof. You will not be found here, and here nobody will find you, so long as you are silent as a shadow, and the wind blows your footsteps away.

You do not use the door, the wood is so rotten that it would splinter at the slightest touch, and send the whole house crashing down, and then they might find you and whisper lies in your ears, and poison the truth with paradoxical statements. The windows of The House sneer down at you as you gaze up, and any person but you would be deterred by their snarl. Maybe they too will not think to look for you here, nobody would be foolish enough to trespass under the watchful eyes of those eerie windows. Why would they? Why should they?

You are at the back of The House now, and you lift a toppled down fence to reveal the entrance to your inner sanctum. They would not dare search for you here with their false truths and lies, but in reality, what is the truth? Are you really safe here? Although you may have fingers and toes, you have no shoes! They’ll find you for sure!

They come upon your mind as you run down a hallway. It branches off into two doors at one end, and they mock you, as you stand; immobile, unable to walk. “You’ll never reach us, we’re locked any way!” shrieks the one on the left, and it trembles in a silent laugh. The other door remains quiet, but for a tiny whisper; “Through here. Through here.” You aren’t sure which is worse, the mocking laugh, or the tantalising whisper of safety. What if it’s locked? But it is too late now, because they have found you and your ears are filled with the murmuring of many voices as they read aloud everything there is to be read, every line of every page is murmured by the unknown.

There’s something upstairs. It makes an irregular fluttering flitting sound; flit. Flit. Flutter-flit. Your earlier thoughts of leaving are scattered like sheets of ink stained paper in a breeze, as you gently, carefully walk through the whispering door, up the half-collapsed staircase. The noise is coming from one of the rooms at the front of the house, but you can’t go in there, you can’t! The windows are eyes, and they’ll see you! You walk through the empty doorframe regardless. The Window glares at you. “You shouldn’t be here,” it says, “Go away, out of MY House,” and you do just that. Down the half collapsed staircase, through the whispering door, out of your secret entrance. It is light,, and the morning has passed, but not the cold nor the frost. You look up, but clouds obscure your vision, dark cirrus clouds cover the whole sky as it starts to snow.

One of the voices from the murmuring crowd peels itself away.

“They aren’t real snowflakes, you know. They can see you. They’re reading out your thoughts to everyone except you, and everyone thinks you’ve lost your anchor to reality, your grip on sanity.”

Is the voice right? Maybe you have fallen over the edge and into madness? You feel as if you are made of glass, one push could send you crashing to the ground to lie shattered like the windows of The House.

You do not know where to go, so you turn left, left, left again, never right because right is never right. “Except when it is,” says the voice. You are still ignorant of where you are going, but the snow covered trees guide you.

“Come on! They’re waiting for you, hurry up, slowcoach!” You ignore them. They are not important; you should not be concerned by their misguided antics.

You continue walking; unknowing, into unreality.