Okay duddies and peeps. Today we have decided to write a (horror?) story but we do not exactly know how we should sum the whole thing up. So we shall leave you hanging for now because we're soooo evvviiilll >:) muahahaha wut now :P ENJOY (cuz you better)
His heart pounding, desperation threatens to engulf him. In his tired, cracked voice, he still feebly cries out for help. Heavy, labourous pants echo throughout the tomb; his own personal study, as he usually likes to call it, but right now, with perpiration running down his stiffening body there was no time to reminisce on old thoughts. Falling to the ground, he clutches at the accursed coffin of Matthew Fenner, ultimately the cause of his own demise, and thinks back to how this had all happened...
Being a mortuary artist is not a desirable job for many, but for the lax George Birch it is ideal. There is something, just something indescribable about the dark musty odour of caskets and the graves they lie under that attracts him. Be it the degree of dignity in posing lifeless tenants or the costly "laying-out" apparel beneath the casket's lid; the feeling cannot be put into words. It is almost a rush, a crude satisfaction that Birch coldly stares with at his final masterpieces, but nevertheless, he is only human, and the quality of his work differentiates.
One late April afternoon, Birch sighs and drags his tired legs to the door. He is neglecting his work lately, giving the same excuse that the winter ice has not yet thawed until even to himself it sounds nothing more than the lame excuse it is. And now that not a speck of ice was left among the fresh dew that layers the withered grass, even he can not back up his own argument.
Heading out the door, there is a strange foreboding of misfortune hanging in the misty air. Being a strictly unreligious man, Birch haughtily puts off these feelings as mere nonsense, an after-effect from drinking earlier. However even his usually dutifle horse is unusually vexed today, and all this easily irritates the already annoyed Birch, and he does not handle the frail body of Matthew Fenner as carefully as he usually might have. Viciously drawing up his horse at the tomb, his original destination, he relishes the damp, odourous chamber with the tombs carelessly placed around. As he recognizes the coffin of Matthew Fenner, the light vanishes as the rusty latch to the tomb door clicks shut.
Any suggestions as to what should happen next? PEOPLE PLEASE COMMENT BELOW :)
I have recently noticed something.
WHY DO WE HAVE BARELY ANYYYYY FOLLOWERS?!?!?!? WHY IS THE WORLD SO CRUEL?!?! heartbreak :'O
So click the follow button on the right side near our profile. Unless you would like to see some innocent wonderful people cry and mourn. WHICH WOULD MAKE YOU A HORRIBLE HORRIBLE PERSON HOW COULD U LIVE WITH URSELF AFTER THISSSS!!?!?!?
CHERRIOS >:D
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