The Toy Room

Time after time, the door that I once knew, now remains to me as a crazed room, no more of tranquil music boxes of Victorian craft instead the wallpaper ceasing to hold upon its elder wall. All the toys now remain in an ancient tomb, a splintery wooden crate where not even the most agrarian being could stumble through, perhaps even the ferret I once owned who soon died along the road of the motor-devils. On that day, its blood stained over the bright clothes I hath been wearing only to match of the sky's presence; a pale white. In this village evermore the skies remain of the similar tone, the similar pale white I had once worn on that emotional day or period of youthful timing. Those years when my hair condemned of a bedraggled black and my hair were to subside of looseness like the man Poe. Ever so the toy room wilt remain alone for that room is no great use for toys, perhaps the blood of my loved one's will remain there-- alive, and well. If only they were. As I walk along the houses borders, I continuously stare throughout the windows, those windows where the memorable faces meet me. My only friends, the faces I once knew and enjoyed of dominating over whence my childish years were to be conveying, the many marionettes which toppled over the roof of the room, the roof's architectural white or lilac, now beginning to vanish of it's color entering a stage of nostalgia and now that sensation has cynically increased of more abhorrent visions than positive one's at the best. Yet as I continue to view of that room my senses call upon me, speaking of greatly agitating subjects, more of death than anything other than what would apprehend as positive. Would the various toy's be of animation or of approachable sentiment? Perhaps not, for the thought remains either anonymous or greatly eccentric according to my aptitude. Yet, madness could associate over the topic, perhaps even the slightest cognizance of supernatural fondness? Personally, it would be best to rather ignore the subject rather than speak of it mentally for my mind hath already gone made over certain subjects at superstitious periods of time. Either reason, the room contains much nostalgic remedy and too much of a subject could drive one of viral sane of negativity also known as categorical madness.
As to when sitting on a chair my knowledge lingers of much more idealistic comprehension. Writing of fears are what mostly diverse myself into thinking. As my typewriter lay in front of me on the Gothic desk of pure black my mind correlates over many things such as death, insects, or of claustrophobic remedy as what to many humans cease to carry-on. The topics chosen as to what frighten the reader and the book fears itself for perhaps the book may not be of quiescent cast. My morbidity always topples over my knowledge over the time of written prosperity and tranquility. My thoughts yet settle over the strangeness encompassing of the room of pure hellish atmosphere. The objects or toys in that room do not remain as others who are silent, instead they squeak or resemble any other strange sound of unknown antecedent.

Author's Note

Its Short.

Reviews

[Blissful Sin]

Very well written story, it may be short but it is fantastic.

-Bliss

[Alexander B. Kerri]

The story was an act of my "Literary Fiction". I enjoy the literary fiction genre which Edgar Allan Poe had conducted to H.P Lovecraft in the late future. And then nobody dared conducted the genre of Gothic Literature ever again for nobody is interested much of that now dull genre as they name it. But the literary fiction and Gothic Literature will always be my favourite genres of all time and forever more til the end of time when my writings are unrecognized throughout the earth or all over the Victorian race. So this story was a somewhat validation of my literary gift. I wilt try to create more of this genre and so forth til the Lovecraftian fans are satisfied.

[AaliaFOfficial]

This is really well written!