gloomyMoron
Virgin
- Joined
- Oct 24, 2026
- Posts
- 89
I got the inclination to post something that was written over 4 years ago for Group Therapy, but it doesn't really have a home anywhere to post it. It's short, barely a page long in a ringed notebook, so I figured I'd create a thread for writings or stories without a "home" for others to share while sharing it. Feel free to post excerpts from stories that you abandoned or anything like that, if you want, too. This should be a thread for a place to share.
This, whatever it actually is, has no name; just the date it was written: 2-3-22. It is being posted as is, despite my compulsion to edit or tweak it when I notice things wrong with it.
The gnarled, twisted vine climbs the faded white and peeling lattice; a silky green and brown strand clinging—choking. Tendrils snake and wind seeking sustenance.
The house, such as it is, no more than a hovel. Less than, even. Barren lawn of browns. Faded, tattered shingles dangling from a corner. Desolate. Dreary. Dilapidated. Less than a shell of its past self, and more of a forgotten tomb.
There was beauty there, once. Laughter of children playing on green grass. Red roses on a white trellis. Black roof protecting occupants from weather, good and ill. Life. Happiness. Promise. Rot.
The rot and decay had always been there. Hidden from sight, sleeping beneath the surface. Entropy and time only brought it out quicker. The rot. The truth. The beauty only found in a memory.
The truth and the end. Beauty found in accepting an ending. The beauty and promise of a new beginning.
A bud, green and fresh, atop a gnarled twisted vine.
This, whatever it actually is, has no name; just the date it was written: 2-3-22. It is being posted as is, despite my compulsion to edit or tweak it when I notice things wrong with it.
The gnarled, twisted vine climbs the faded white and peeling lattice; a silky green and brown strand clinging—choking. Tendrils snake and wind seeking sustenance.
The house, such as it is, no more than a hovel. Less than, even. Barren lawn of browns. Faded, tattered shingles dangling from a corner. Desolate. Dreary. Dilapidated. Less than a shell of its past self, and more of a forgotten tomb.
There was beauty there, once. Laughter of children playing on green grass. Red roses on a white trellis. Black roof protecting occupants from weather, good and ill. Life. Happiness. Promise. Rot.
The rot and decay had always been there. Hidden from sight, sleeping beneath the surface. Entropy and time only brought it out quicker. The rot. The truth. The beauty only found in a memory.
The truth and the end. Beauty found in accepting an ending. The beauty and promise of a new beginning.
A bud, green and fresh, atop a gnarled twisted vine.