is this real

its still here...

Mosquitos. The heat was stifling and the scent humid, sunrays trickled past the waving bamboo-branches branching above my bed. Bed in sand, red southern clay. Mosquitos clung to my skin, suckling outwards my likewise red-scented blood, breeding, oozing, baking in the Sun like a waking bum. I crushed them. Each above my wet-soaking skin, speckling my face in dotted lines of blood-drenched acne craters, strewn-parts of insect legs and wings.

The pool was punctured. Green leaflets floated o'er the surface pond and hosted tadpoles, mayflies, algae, frogs and larvae in a five-foot flat circle 'neath the bamboo-branches beaming with sunlight eager still to boil every living creature in the pond, 'twere it not the canopy above their heads vouch-safing on their week-long lives above the sodden plastic pond.

New life boiled forth. Frogs ate mosquito flies, the tadpoles had their larvae, mayflies remained generally unapparent to me, while some unseemly things crawled on many legs. In that time it could have been a hundred new births, plantlife and fauna, for me it was an unfortunate afternoon in festering heat and filth beneath a blumptious summer sun.

A four-foot greeted me, its necktie tinkling with a twinkling copper bell; expectant, it climbed upon my lap and grated with its vocal cords, raspy breaths abounding from its slender lungs. Even this one had its mate, a shagfurred shagger shagging several of the fourfoots in the yard, a growler not unkind but quite a mean one to the squirrels. Soon the rest of copper-bell's bleating kids were bouncing from the bamboo, each as curious as the copper'd one.

Life gave birth to new life, algae-plants, single-cells, larvae nibbling on the green'ry and tadpoles at the pool. Four-foot beasts with nuzzling-muzzles making out the milk; only I was birthless 'neath the bamboo-branches beaming, only I would bear the new day unbecoming, even I could not become the fourfoot shagger shuffling for a sniffle of a twoleg's shaggy birther...

>>34658927
buzz off!

>>34658927
how could one see, really see this beastial endless cycle and, if not be complacent in its determined simplicity, not dream of higher planes?

>>34662078
>>34663405
Pool above the sod. In olden days it held a sea of waters, sparkling in the sunlight on a bed of store-bought sand. Then the bamboo thickets had not grown so tall, had not blotted out the skies with their bounding, branching branches in the sky; then they were shoots, little porcupine-cones peeking from the grass, tasty-shrubs beyond the picket fence. Simpler days were then, when the twofoots trod the sandy shores of the sodden pond, with the scent of charcoal pyres, pollen, ground-beef burgers wafting, laughter ringing like a phone call beneath a stony bridge in late December. Suicide.

In olden days its glory shone like the South Sea; pirates rapt for booty, swordsmen buckled on its beaches, a princess pined for a prince, a fickle castle made of plastic. The sun was brighter then, the air was cooler, the twofoots nicer, and the grass greener. I was aliver then, my liver wasn't broken then, my mind even lesser-so on the rolling shores of the great South Sea.

Now the golden pool's in ruins on the sod. The bamboo blots the sun, sand beneath the blood-red clay, stagnant water from the rain and earthworms writhing up again. The tadpoles. Frogs on-looked through the shadows cast on sunset fantasies, dreams of an olden day. The little shed where used to play the tadpoles, hence a home for raccoon-mothers, rats and fourfoot hunters pining after. Now a twoleg watcher sits in the burning shade of the bamboo-buzzards buzzing all around, mayflies mating, maggots molting, old life giving up to new; ugly things lie underground, old memories beneath the sod.

>>34663693
the past is a grotesque ghost which often lures dreamers to its hallowed, forgotten sites, promising them to be devoured or haunted; but ends them up being detained for trespassing, or ambushed by certain rowdy, substance-addled, freeloading vagrants

who the hell are you people

>>34664225
they say ghosts are all metaphors. trauma, abuse, sin, the unresolved problems of the past. it's true in a way. a ghost is never just a ghost. there's always something more, lurking deeper.
i bought this house last year. it was built 1782, mostly burned down in the summer of 91 when the heatwaves were pressing down on this town for months, mostly rebuilt the same by the end of the next year. mostly. there was a room, it's in the blueprints, just off the main attic space. no doors. no windows. just an empty room with entry point. i wonder now, laying awake at night, listening so intently for any noise at all, were the remains they found in the ash from that room? it's impossible to say now. maybe it doesn't matter. it's been more than thirty years since that fire. the remains were held, investigated, cremated, investigation dropped. old house, old bones. they used to lock their children up back then if they weren't normal. the autistics, the schizophrenics, the deformed; the undesirables. police said the fire just revealed a family secret a few hundred years too late for anyone to do anything. oh well. move on. but ghosts are all metaphors and metaphors can last a good while.
first noticed it a few days after moving in. keys weren't were i left them, furniture moved a quarter an inch overnight. nothing too bad. nothing i couldn't explain as faulty memory. complications of stress from working twelve hour days at the mill. but it escalated. tapping in the walls. the scurrying of insects, no, too large to be insects. too many legs to be a rat. i should have known. but as adults we cast away childish things, notions of magic, the paranormal. blind ourselves to the reality. i lay here now still wondering, is it the ghost of a child or is the house just wrong? the bones just another victim. well, a victim either way. i don't think i can leave this place anymore. the doors don't open the way they should. the geometry doesn't match and my thoughts grow thin