He looks at up at the night sky and sighs. The call of a lone owl breaks the silence. At that moment, a flock of ravens takes flight over the man, circling him. The man, breathing sharply, freezes. As the ravens circle the man, the owl comes in to sight. Moonlight reflecting off its white feathers, it lands few feet from the man. One by one the ravens land around the owl, but keeping their distance. The man looks at the owl and falls to the ground, crying. As he lies there, the ravens start fading away, leaving behind a black feather. After the ravens, the owl takes flight and in a brilliant flash of light disappears.
That morning, the man wakes up in his bed panting. He looks around the room, but sees nothing out of place. Only a single white feather, slowly floating down.
I'll let everyone interpret this as they wish, it's original meaning can be very hard to grasp.
One of my earliest writings in this style, it shines through in its form I'd say. Never did put this up before, I dunno why.
As the wind of time turns the faded pages of an old book, its owner looks on helplessly as the the last few pages run out and the book closes. When opened, you find the pages blank. Only the text "the end" signifying that there was a story in the book remains. As the book vanishes into the stream of time, its owner lets out a sigh, and fades away into eternity. You turn back to see a pedestal, and on it, a book. Next to the pedestal, a baby in its cradle, sleeping peacefully.
Everyday, a new page is written in the book of life. If there's anything left when the pages run out, is up to you. Make good use of those pages. Use ink that lasts, because that ink will be the only thing left when the pages run out, and the book is done. Be careful though, the ink drips.
