Post by account_disabled on Dec 23, 2023 23:40:01 GMT -5
The eerie, distant sound of the bell broke the nocturnal silence in rhythmic cadences, at times it became louder, more pronounced, as if to remind us of its presence in that dark and starless night. Don , don , don . Up there, on the barren hill, where only shrubs and dried grass grew, the ruins of the old mission church stood, little more than a pile of rubble defying the times. The bell tower, almost completely intact, had that single bell, which continued to ring... don , don , don . But there was no one to move the rope, no one up there, in the ruins on the top of the hill, no one except the ghosts that populated them.
Jonathan, however, did not believe in ghosts, he knew that it was the wind that made that damned bell ring, the same one that, ten years earlier, had accompanied the funeral procession of his family, Special Data everything he had in life, his wife and his two little girls , all died of fever. And from that day on he had hated the bell and the sound it made. From that day on he could no longer sleep at night because of the bell. Don , don , don . Jonathan couldn't stand it anymore, he was going crazy, that distant music, that single note consumed him inside, tore apart his reason, already poised between reality and madness. Don , don , don .
The sound persisted, calling him from afar, from the mountain where nothing grew anymore, where only death lived. Don , don , don . Jonathan ran out into the cold darkness, he ran up the slope without stopping... don , don , don ... he ran up to the ruins, up to the still standing bell tower... don , don , don ... he ran to hang himself from the bell rope and not hear it more.. But what is a story if it doesn't have a reader? It is a silent reality imprisoned in unconsciousness. He doesn't even notice it. The legs move on their own and you see yourself flying over the unknown void. Fear grips him for a moment, just a moment, until his feet hit the ground on the other side.Brian Clark (@copyblogger) June 10, 2013 Brian Clark often uses this technique to promote his and other bloggers' posts.
Jonathan, however, did not believe in ghosts, he knew that it was the wind that made that damned bell ring, the same one that, ten years earlier, had accompanied the funeral procession of his family, Special Data everything he had in life, his wife and his two little girls , all died of fever. And from that day on he had hated the bell and the sound it made. From that day on he could no longer sleep at night because of the bell. Don , don , don . Jonathan couldn't stand it anymore, he was going crazy, that distant music, that single note consumed him inside, tore apart his reason, already poised between reality and madness. Don , don , don .
The sound persisted, calling him from afar, from the mountain where nothing grew anymore, where only death lived. Don , don , don . Jonathan ran out into the cold darkness, he ran up the slope without stopping... don , don , don ... he ran up to the ruins, up to the still standing bell tower... don , don , don ... he ran to hang himself from the bell rope and not hear it more.. But what is a story if it doesn't have a reader? It is a silent reality imprisoned in unconsciousness. He doesn't even notice it. The legs move on their own and you see yourself flying over the unknown void. Fear grips him for a moment, just a moment, until his feet hit the ground on the other side.Brian Clark (@copyblogger) June 10, 2013 Brian Clark often uses this technique to promote his and other bloggers' posts.