I am now trying to write a slightly longer FF. A little tip: Listen to sad music while reading the part, such as I listened to B while writing: Nick Cave & The bad Seeds and Kyle Minogue Where The Wild Roses Grow or Enya ... something like that ... that creates the right atmosphere.


Take the time to put a CD in the stereo. Oh yes and don't be too strict is my first longer story ...






Between heaven and hell


Chapter 1, Act One, Prologue: Memory






She fades. The memory.


So slowly and creeping that it only becomes clear to me when the mountains and the wind sing about it. When you quiet song sounds in my soul, like a sweet melody from old times.




And yet ... I can still see the willows bending in the light breeze. Hear the dark call of the lonely owls that echoes through each lonelier night. I can still feel the long-healed scratches on my arms from the gnarled branches of the oaks.

The old oak trees that greeted me and told me new stories every time I ventured into the little forest that surrounded the corn-yellow fields pale from the eternally gray sky. The oaks that proudly presented their wounds, that stood up to the pressure of the storm and whose soft whisper you could hear if you just pressed your ear hard enough against their rough bark. They told of wars and suffering and ... sometimes of happiness and happiness. So many stories. Seen and experienced so much. Silent observer whose quiet weeping can be heard through the worlds and times. You just have to ... listen.




I can still feel the cool wetness of the small lake with its glittering lights. See the ferns swaying like mothers with their little children in the freezing wind that blows the mind quickly away. He carries people's dreams through time and weeps with the trees when he wafts around their heads draped with heavy thoughts, when his call carries the ashes of the burning houses far away, and his whispers resound in my heart.

But he was never able to move the clouds in the gray sky that hung heavily over my little, distorted world. Could never wipe the tears from my cheeks that kept making their way whenever I was alone listening to the world. But I was grateful for the pain that danced through my mind in bright colors and brought the feelings of this world closer to me.




When I close my eyes I see the outlines of the old orphanage, the thatched barn. I see the pale candlelight in the windows, I see old Mrs. Binger hunched over her embroidery, which she couldn't get through her life. I didn't give her any time ... the picture would certainly have turned out beautiful.




I smell the sweet scent of the musty wood, hear their laughter and their hilarious screams. I feel the hard wooden floorboards under my toes, feel the crumbling plaster under my splayed fingers. Crumbling ... the way it all started to fall apart ...

Sometimes ... I don't understand myself ... why I didn't notice what was happening around me. Why I didn't stop her. Why I let myself ask questions ...




That the wild roses withered in front of our house, their blossoms soaked in the blood of the world that their children shed anew every day ... that the wind no longer whispered. That the trees ... got cold. That the lake was still and the ferns were too weak to last.


All life passed as the doubts dug into my soul that I no longer heard what the trees tanned by wounds called out to me.


That I no longer tasted the soft scent of raindrops on the heated asphalt, no longer saw the laughing face of old Mrs. Binger, bent over the flower beds, with the rake in hand, moving heavily back and forth ..., laughing children frolicking in the meadows, playing in the unprecedented sunshine, their voices echoing through the air, their calls fading in my thoughts ... like an old picture that does not overcome time ...

that I no longer ... lived, no longer believed ...




All of this disappears and gets lost ... I'm getting lost. Who I am? Nobody. I used to be someone. A dream. A dream that began to burst on another simple autumn day, when the wild roses twined around the canes in front of the old orphanage, the wind whirled up the leaves and the lake lay still and shimmering.


I swear to myself with all my heart and my empty soul that I will never forget the day when I stormed into the old hospital room, shaking everything around me like a whirlwind. And there lay these boys and the girl in the forever empty beds. Scattered with scratches, unconscious and harmless. And yet ... I felt that something was emanating from them, something that was different.


They said that they only remembered a car accident and asked about their comrades ... I couldn't answer any of their questions. They killed everything.

The little girl with the strange hair invaded my world, splintering it with her questions until nothing was left. One boy swept up the broken pieces and held them in front of my nose. The other laughed at me and congratulated me on being free at last. How foolish ...


No not free .... I was dead. Death was within me. He had long since sneaked into my soul ... And built a wall ... made of ice. He crept through my cold blood. Pumped through my veins. Scurries over my clammy fingers. Wrapped around my frozen heart like a bony hand, crushed it, crushed it, the splinters of ice stung me, I could feel it ... you hear I could feel how they hollowed me out from the inside, smashed and cut everything. You killed me! Yet you think you saved me.


Outwardly I moved my lips but there was no sound in me, my movements did not even cause a breath of air, I no longer belonged in this world, I was not allowed to be here, I had long been fleeting like a second in the nature of time.I lived and yet I was dead.


And everything died with me. I was always the pulsating center of my reality ... they made me freeze to death.




Now I am free and yet ... trapped, more than ever ...


I'll tell you my story ...




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Rainbow poem,


Magic of dying light


Happiness like music melted away,


Pain in the face of the Madonna


The bitter delights of existence ...




Blossoms swept by the storm


Wreaths laid on graves,


Cheerfulness without endurance,


Star that falls into darkness;


Veil of beauty and sadness


Above the abyss of the world.






It doesn't matter if you don't understand a lot ... I know the part is not very good ... but it will be exciting ... I think ... oh what do I know ...

T-T I'm trying, really


But I'm so moody ... you noticed Gorilla ... can easily influence me when I'm in this strange mood. Melancholy. (But I would not call you a low form of life, we humans are the happiest, because we have the opportunity to deviate at least a tiny bit from our destiny when we ask questions and rise above the gloom of life and the rut. Oh no. ... I'm sliding back in. Melancholy ....


Was it a curse or a blessing to let us have the gift of thinking and asking questions ...


I ask for a lot of comments! Criticism too! It would be really nice if you are not so lazy to write .... I'm very ... well how should one say ... dependent. The more I get, the more the urge to get more increases and I keep writing ... then I can be sure that someone is worried.

PS: I dedicate this part to all lonely people who have withdrawn into their world. Keep your dreams! And thank everyone who reads them and writes me clerks.