| Author |
Message |
    
Stephen in AZ
Senior Member
Username: stephenm
Post Number: 2211
Registered: 12-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, August 27, 2009 - 12:17 pm: | 
|
This thread was getting
low today
I sent it up
but it won't stay
New posts are needed
to keep it high
Without those posts
it goes bye-bye |
da~an
Senior Member
Username: daan
Post Number: 6266
Registered: 10-2004
| | Posted on Thursday, October 08, 2009 - 10:39 am: |
|
hi again, stephen!
high it is now!
try we often do
why try? we see
thy wise try, yes!
our dreams need
to fly... say i
"up"
|
allen
Senior Member
Username: eastsider01
Post Number: 1594
Registered: 4-2005
| | Posted on Thursday, December 10, 2009 - 2:20 pm: |
|
Flower petals falling
like rain from the sky
Are no match for your smile
In my eyes
A. Pierson
2007 |
blue
Senior Member
Username: jennyblue
Post Number: 674
Registered: 3-2007
| | Posted on Friday, December 11, 2009 - 6:42 am: |
|
beautiful poem, suzi. it brings tears to my eyes.
We are the ones we've been waiting for.
Hopi Elders 2001.
to be a rock and still to roll . . .
|
da~an
Senior Member
Username: daan
Post Number: 6586
Registered: 10-2004
| | Posted on Friday, February 26, 2010 - 9:48 am: |
|
!!!
"up"
|
Stephen in AZ
Senior Member
Username: stephenm
Post Number: 2379
Registered: 12-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, April 15, 2010 - 3:26 pm: |
|
I made a post
For little cost
So this thread moves up
And won't be lost |
Stephen in AZ
Senior Member
Username: stephenm
Post Number: 2410
Registered: 12-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, June 23, 2010 - 12:29 pm: |
|
I put this post
Into this space
So that this thread
Still has a place |
animalspirits
Senior Member
Username: animalspiritstalstarcom
Post Number: 8075
Registered: 10-2006
| | Posted on Wednesday, June 23, 2010 - 1:12 pm: |
|
Stephen,
That was a cute bump!
Understand that all things are sacred--yet nothing is sacred.
~Yotee Coyote
|
Stephen in AZ
Senior Member
Username: stephenm
Post Number: 2459
Registered: 12-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, August 03, 2010 - 10:43 am: |
|
Thanks, animalspirits. |
Stephen in AZ
Senior Member
Username: stephenm
Post Number: 2609
Registered: 12-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, January 15, 2011 - 7:09 am: |
|
I found this thread
Asleep in bed
And left a note
With what I wrote |
animalspirits
Senior Member
Username: animalspiritstalstarcom
Post Number: 9652
Registered: 10-2006
| | Posted on Thursday, March 03, 2011 - 9:55 am: |
|
Anyone written anything lately?
Understand that all things are sacred--yet nothing is sacred.
~Yotee Coyote
Blog: http://animalspirits--withoutfear.blogspot.com
|
bean
Senior Member
Username: tina
Post Number: 1618
Registered: 12-2001
| | Posted on Saturday, March 19, 2011 - 3:26 pm: |
|
Below the feet, below the street
the worm has broken free
Thru rock, thru crust, with ramming speed
up ends the land complete
Smashing, crashing thru the granite
rocking, rolling, shaking planet
to the core...what can with stand its
wild destructive need
And Lo, just when you thought you'd found
a safer place from trembling ground
between the raging, buckling sound
comes water from the deep
No where to hide..this water slide
is all around from side to side
a massive wall of salty wide
engulfs ... destroys with speed
It's not enough to shake and break
to flood and set the land at stake
another woe is on the take
and "bitters" as it leaks
Far under ground what can be found
the serpents lair...no longer bound
sniffing out just like a hound
where next goes worm and sea? |
allen
Senior Member
Username: eastsider01
Post Number: 2393
Registered: 4-2005
| | Posted on Saturday, March 19, 2011 - 8:55 pm: |
|
I belong to a cancer patients support group. We meet once a week on Monday's. In the past Two months Three people have passed in our group, most recently our good friend David. Two weeks ago he was at the meeting, walking and talking. Less than Two weeks later he has passed. It was the same for Carol, here and functioning and then quickly gone.
I wrote this the morning after being informed of David's passing.
Imagine yourself propped up against the base of a tree. It’s a beautiful day outside and you are feeling the sun warm your body. You are dying. You have only a few more minutes of life, and you know this. The question becomes ’how will you spend the next few, last minutes of your life? Because weather it takes a few days, months, or years it is really just a few minutes. I choose not to spend them angry, sad, full of pride or arrogant. I want to feel the sun, the breeze, to smell the plants. I want to feel compassion, love, empathy, and joy my last few minutes. I now recognize that these are my last few minutes and I will not exhaust my precious time discussing the merit's of the choices other people make in their lives. To each his/her own. The politics of the day are important, but I will not allow myself to stress over the current turn of events. These are MY} last few minutes. I will be at peace with myself and with my environment, regardless of current events. I will endeavor to be present in each and every moment. Not looking back or projecting into the future. This will be difficult for me to do, but it is worth the effort. These are my last, few minutes and I want them to have some meaning for me as I drift off into the next phase of being. I love you and the chance I have had to be here and experience this wonderful planet.
Peace |
bean
Senior Member
Username: tina
Post Number: 1622
Registered: 12-2001
| | Posted on Saturday, March 19, 2011 - 11:49 pm: |
|
It would make life so much more wonderful, if we didn't wait for impending death, to realize the truth of living each moment as it happens...in love and respect for existence.
Blessings, Allen
Bean |
flux
Intermediate Member
Username: flux
Post Number: 128
Registered: 1-2011
| | Posted on Wednesday, March 30, 2011 - 10:55 pm: |
|
THE LEADEN ECHO
How to kéep—is there ány any, is there none such, nowhere known some, bow or brooch or braid or brace, láce, latch or catch or key to keep
Back beauty, keep it, beauty, beauty, beauty, ... from vanishing away?
Ó is there no frowning of these wrinkles, rankéd wrinkles deep,
Dówn? no waving off of these most mournful messengers, still messengers, sad and stealing messengers of grey?
No there 's none, there 's none, O no there 's none,
Nor can you long be, what you now are, called fair,
Do what you may do, what, do what you may,
And wisdom is early to despair:
Be beginning; since, no, nothing can be done
To keep at bay
Age and age's evils, hoar hair,
Ruck and wrinkle, drooping, dying, death's worst, winding sheets, tombs and worms and tumbling to decay;
So be beginning, be beginning to despair.
O there 's none; no no no there 's none:
Be beginning to despair, to despair,
Despair, despair, despair, despair.
THE GOLDEN ECHO
Spare!
There ís one, yes I have one (Hush there!);
Only not within seeing of the sun,
Not within the singeing of the strong sun,
Tall sun's tingeing, or treacherous the tainting of the earth's air,
Somewhere elsewhere there is ah well where! one,
Oné. Yes I can tell such a key, I do know such a place,
Where whatever's prized and passes of us, everything that 's fresh and fast flying of us, seems to us sweet of us and swiftly away with, done away with, undone,
Undone, done with, soon done with, and yet dearly and dangerously sweet
Of us, the wimpled-water-dimpled, not-by-morning-matchèd face,
The flower of beauty, fleece of beauty, too too apt to, ah! to fleet,
Never fleets móre, fastened with the tenderest truth
To its own best being and its loveliness of youth: it is an everlastingness of, O it is an all youth!
Come then, your ways and airs and looks, locks, maiden gear, gallantry and gaiety and grace,
Winning ways, airs innocent, maiden manners, sweet looks, loose locks, long locks, lovelocks, gaygear, going gallant, girlgrace—
Resign them, sign them, seal them, send them, motion them with breath,
And with sighs soaring, soaring síghs deliver
Them; beauty-in-the-ghost, deliver it, early now, long before death
Give beauty back, beauty, beauty, beauty, back to God, beauty's self and beauty's giver.
See; not a hair is, not an eyelash, not the least lash lost; every hair
Is, hair of the head, numbered.
Nay, what we had lighthanded left in surly the mere mould
Will have waked and have waxed and have walked with the wind what while we slept,
This side, that side hurling a heavyheaded hundredfold
What while we, while we slumbered.
O then, weary then why When the thing we freely fórfeit is kept with fonder a care,
Fonder a care kept than we could have kept it, kept
Far with fonder a care (and we, we should have lost it) finer, fonder
A care kept.—Where kept? Do but tell us where kept, where.—
Yonder.—What high as that! We follow, now we follow.—Yonder, yes yonder, yonder,
Yonder. |
Mama Shine
Senior Member
Username: mama_shine
Post Number: 13984
Registered: 9-2006
| | Posted on Wednesday, March 30, 2011 - 11:35 pm: |
|
Thank you Flux.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xjdaBTE7VBY
I must create a system, or be enslaved by another man's. ~William Blake
|
sahgwa
Senior Member
Username: sahgwa
Post Number: 506
Registered: 3-2010
| | Posted on Thursday, April 07, 2011 - 10:11 pm: |
|
I am always writing its my hobby. I dont want to post it (I finished the thing I had posted in Write!!) because it is so long. Like 40 pages single spaced. But if you want to read it just message me!
I have no problem posting one I am working on that is not done though.
Let me know what you think please!
"The Tunnels" (working title)
The phone rang when Harry was just getting to the climax of his nightmare. He startled awake and stared blearily ahead of him. The dusty dark room was barely lit by the velvet curtains open a crack, illuminating lazy dust motes in the moonlit air. The antique clanging of the old phone bell was grating on his barely rested ears. It was Sam and he was screaming. Something about all the blood.
Harry thought back…it must have all started during the summer last, when the two of them, plus one other friend, Anise, had attempted to explore the Tunnels of Set together.
The Tunnels of Set are what is known as a metaphsyical concept, a non physical location, and a representation of the pathways of the brain, all in one. They are a set of tunnels that can be visited nonphysically in trance, astral, or magickal ritualised states for the purposes of knowledge and self improvement, and perhaps a little material gain. The budding explorer is best using them for altruistic purposes, as the Tunnels have a tendency to trap those with more malevolent modus operandi. Even if you were Gandhi himself you would have a nasty chance of becoming ensnared in a ropy slimy mess, choking on your own bile. But it would be worse than you can imagine, because it wouldn’t ever end, because it would be happening to your energetic body.
Each tunnel is guarded by its own demon, or genie of the Qliphoth. The Qliphoth are what are termed the Shells; usually formerly physical beings that are now resigned to an existence of repetition and lack of substance, generally in places that are not quite pleasant. They are some of them former humans, and others former extraterrestrials, and others still were never physical to begin with, but are merely of a lower vibration physically and often morally, than the rest of the Universe.
The genii of the Qliphoth however, as the bosses of their particular tunnel, contain power and wisdom and may teach or do favours for the would-be explorer if they are strong enough to ask correctly.
This much Harry knew, for he had been briefed by Sam when he and Anise asked him to join them in their exploration. And now here he was listening to Sam scream on the phone from some dingy seaside motel, sounding like a lunatic.
Sam said he was at the Gull and Tern, a ramshackle motel with sprawling old Victorian porches right on the shore, about an hour from Harry. It was in La Fontaine bay, on Breton Sound.
After screaming about having no memory of what happened and waking up covered in blood next to his unresponsive wife Anise who was likewise drenched, he implored Harry in a sick wheedling tone to please hurry. Then he hung up.
Harry felt strangely spooked. He wiped the damp sweat from the back of his neck and forehead with his hand and stood up dizzily. The red alarm clock read 3:45am already. Harry shrugged into some clothes and hurried to the coast in his convertible. Even the French Quarter was quiet this time of night. The old oaks fluttered their thick leaves against the low slung wooden buildings, and creeper moss and honeysuckle competed for space on rusted gothic fences around decrepit yet hauntingly beautiful French mansions.
Harry however was not seeing any of this, instead a blind panic all but gripped him as he raced to the highway. Sam’s scream was still ringing in his ears: ‘My God! It’s full of blood!’ By the time he manoeuvred the little sports car up the steep promontory and to the Cliffside motel overlooking the sea, the clock read nearly 4:30am. With speeding and little traffic he had made good time.
He pulled into the gravel lot of the hotel , and could see it had used to be a classy place. Long white Victorian style covered porches wrapped around building, with doors leading to individual rooms. The front door and porch were accessible via a set of rickety wooden stairs.
All around the night was still and muggy save for the chirping of the night creatures and the soft pounding of the surf down the back cliff. The hotels ominous appearance was highlighted not just by peeling paint and warped boards, but by the mangroves which choked every conceivable side of the building with a parasitic clinging tangle of green ropy tendrils.
Harry dreaded walking up those hauntingly shadowed steps. The whole place reeked of a mellifluous crouching evil; the crickets buzzing an otherworldly drone adding to the strain. He thought he could see the darkness vibrating with faint colours like when ones closed eyes are pressed.
Nevertheless, eyes wide open he strode up the steps. Each one creaked complainingly and he worried he might wake whatever drowsing sickness lay dormant. After an eternity of thumping heart in throat he reached the door he had been directed to, number 4.
Room 4 overlooked the sea directly from the cliff top, behind the back of the place. Harry couldn’t help but stop and gaze at the gorgeous view. Despite the air of evil, the sea seemed to hold a beautiful sadness. The moon danced on the rippling waves, white on black, and the sound of the water swishing against the sand of the cove was almost too much to bear.
When Harry turned to knock on the door he was surprised when it swung squeakily open instead. Sam was standing there in the pitch dark, white frightened face lit only by the full moon.
‘Thank God you came! I don’t know what’s happened… Just don’t call for help until we figure it out. I’m warning you…it’s-‘ here his already shaky voice broke down and he sobbed.
Harry merely nodded and walked past him into the darkness. When he turned for Sam to follow Sam merely looked at his feet, shaking his head and turned to stare at the sea. Harry walked into that humid hole of a room and then it him; some strange cloying sweetish smell. He almost fainted from shock for he realised it was blood. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see the entire bed was a giant wet puddle of blood, dripping down the side. It seemed there had been an indentation, human-sized, in the centre where the blood had pooled, overran and continued on down to the floor. Harry was feeling squeamish now and literally sick to his stomach. He didn’t want to see what he knew must be there.
He shuffled to the other side of the bed and nearly retched. It was Anise. She was lying on her side, faced away from the bed in a night gown. Blood had pooled around her as well and the carpet was a hellish swamp. When Harry got the courage to approach her he could see it was too late. No need to check her pulse for her entire throat had been slit so deeply he could see the bone. On the floor nearby he saw a straight shaving razor.
‘My God Sam!! What happened!?’ he cried.
Sam just called wearily ‘Come outside. I can’t bear to be in there.’
Harry obliged and stumbled dazedly out. The moon made it seem comparably bright out here. Unreal. That’s how he felt. Not here.
‘As you know, I’ve been feeling a bit odd since the summer.’ Sam began.
Harry nodded, he had noticed that Sam and Anise had only stopped by once between that summer and this, and he had seemed strangely stressed and even had totally uncharacteristic bouts of rage over trivial things people would do that never annoyed him before. Then there had been some strained telephone conversations in which Sam had tried to convince Harry to do strange favours for him like collecting his hair in clippings or to tell him his blood type, but all of it had been so strange that Harry had been wont to think Sam mad ever since the Working in the Tunnels.
Harry found himself uncontrollably thinking back on that day almost a year ago. He had arrived at Sam and Anise’s place around 3pm and it had been a gloriously warm sunny day. The kind of day where it seems evil couldn’t possibly exist, and if it did, at least can never touch you. He had walked sprightly down the garden path to the front door of the place and knocked.
Both Sam and Anise answered the door with big grins saying ‘It’s so nice of you to agree to this little experiment of ours. We know you don’t really believe in all this occult mumbo jumbo as you call it, but you will!’
More prophetic words had never been spoken. As Harry entered the home he had been in countless times before, he was struck by the change in atmosphere. In place of the usual cheery, if worn couch and coffee table, the sitting room had been cleared in the centre and screens had been put up against the walls.
The screens had apparently been home painted and depicted some kind of tunnel on each, from a first person perspective and not your average tunnel. One looked like rock but it was spongy and fungal looking. In it was a large skeletal thing which carried fearsome-looking blades in each bony clawed hand.
The next screen showed a slimy orifice of a tunnel, as if the viewer was trapped in a great green intestine. Slime ran down the walls in rivulets and pooled ankle-deep on the concave floor. The denizen of this tunnel which Harry at this later point knew to be the Genie of the Qliphoth Gargophiax (sp) was a huge toadlike monstrosity.
And on and on the parade of horrors went until from just a few seconds of glimpsing them, Harry felt quite uncomfortable.
‘I see you’re admiring our personally made artwork!’ exclaimed Anise cheerfully. ‘What do you think of it?’
Not wanting to be rude, Harry said truthfully, ‘It makes me feel weird, so I’d say it’s very uh… well done!’ he managed a weak smile.
‘Well yes, you must have a proper mood set. After all, atmosphere is nearly everything in magick!’ cried Sam exuberantly.
‘So what exactly are these Tunnels of Set you said you wanted me to explore with you?’ Harry had asked.
Then Sam and Anise had sat down with him on some cushions on the spare rug and explained to him the Tunnels of Set. The working included chanting and sigil-work to put them all in an altered state. They had a book they were using, “Nightside of Eden” by a man called Kenneth Grant. In the back of the book was a list of each Tunnel including the Qliphoth Genii’s musical tone, sigil and other details to help put their minds in the proper receptive state to enable their astral bodies to end up in the right spot. After all, as Sam explained, many people had gotten lost in the Tunnels, some never to return sane, if at all.
After hearing all this Harry was pretty frightened. ‘Why are we even doing this if it’s so dangerous?’ he had asked.
‘Well, haven’t you ever done anything frightening just for kicks? And plus, this has an actual purpose, you find out a lot about yourself and how to improve, and get rid of unknown negative tendencies doing this kind of thing.’
So they had sat down together and at a piano in the corner, Sam had played the key of
(C)opyright 2011
thats it so far
hope you enjoyed it and it got your curiousity up.
and no stealing all you anonymous internet lurking types ;)
Observation convinces me that there are beings of intelligence higher than human and that the only chance for mankind to advance as a whole is for individuals to make contact with such Beings.Crowley
|
Mama Shine
Senior Member
Username: mama_shine
Post Number: 14033
Registered: 9-2006
| | Posted on Saturday, April 09, 2011 - 2:19 am: |
|
Chris,
Very interesting as it takes place in
my area. Creepy, yes. Some references or
words acted as triggers of sorts that make
me all the more creeped out. But thats what
creepy tales do, n'est pas?
The key of C..play it again, Sam. Oh, I
mean continue Chris. Hmmmmmmm....
I must create a system, or be enslaved by another man's. ~William Blake
|
sahgwa
Senior Member
Username: sahgwa
Post Number: 507
Registered: 3-2010
| | Posted on Sunday, April 10, 2011 - 7:26 pm: |
|
thanks for the words
i have to do some Work with these places first before i continue. Write what you know and all that. I just hope i dont end up like the character ;)
But i appreciate the reading! take care!
Observation convinces me that there are beings of intelligence higher than human and that the only chance for mankind to advance as a whole is for individuals to make contact with such Beings.Crowley
|
Stephen in AZ
Senior Member
Username: stephenm
Post Number: 2722
Registered: 12-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, August 11, 2011 - 5:23 am: |
|
In a forgotten thread
No words were said
No words came by
No one said "Hi"
The thread drifted low
In currents slow
It waited long
It was all so wrong
In a fading fame
Had it lost its game?
Was it all for naught?
Was the farm now bought?
To a forgotten thread
No words were sent
Will these words
Make a dent? |
Stephen in AZ
Senior Member
Username: stephenm
Post Number: 2792
Registered: 12-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, February 21, 2012 - 4:33 pm: |
|
With my fingers
On the keys
I wrote this post
And charged no fees |
Stephen in AZ
Senior Member
Username: stephenm
Post Number: 2847
Registered: 12-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, July 08, 2012 - 12:21 am: |
|
I wrote this post
Upon this day
At least that's what
Some people say |
Stephen in AZ
Senior Member
Username: stephenm
Post Number: 2875
Registered: 12-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, October 18, 2012 - 9:13 am: |
|
This post I made
This post I wrote
Filled this space
And floats this boat |
kathy decker
Intermediate Member
Username: fand
Post Number: 149
Registered: 3-2011
| | Posted on Thursday, October 18, 2012 - 10:46 pm: |
|
Things that go bump in the night
The leaves are changing color and the chill autumn winds are starting to blow.I find myself craving the crisp crunch of a juicy macintosh between my teeth, and the warmth of a blazing bonfire shared amongst a group of friends.The nights grow longer, and my eyes drift towards the pile of books on the supernatural,seeking out the curious, the strange,the downright spooky.
Ghost stories. Vampire tales. Bad faeries.I am not a big fan of the slasher genre, preferring romantic and chilling to blood and gore.
I grew up on the banks of the Hudson River, historic, wreathed in mist,an area filled with tales of hidden pirate treasure and legends of ghost trains.
The mountains rise steeply from the deep, dark waters, brackish, tidal.Swamps send out eerie tendrils of fog along Shore Road, where I used to take long walks at dusk. I remember coming back home by that road, dimly lit with only one street light along its winding path, the sucking sounds from tidal pull in the marshy land by its side sending cold shivers up my spine.
What evil monster might lurk there depended only upon my imagination and the latest double feature horror film showing at the Storm King Cinema that weekend.Frankenstein and his unholy bride, Dracula, even the Blob, all had homes in that spooky swamp at one time or another.I never actually saw them-but I heard them, and they were coming after me, of that I have absolutely no doubt whatsoever.
I am sure that growing up in that area, rich in history and steeped in mystery has contributed to my love of all things eerie, especially Halloween.
I have decided to share some of the strange tales i heard while growing up, here on this thread, as a Halloween gift to anyone who is interested. Enjoy! |
kathy decker
Intermediate Member
Username: fand
Post Number: 150
Registered: 3-2011
| | Posted on Thursday, October 18, 2012 - 10:48 pm: |
|
ABE LINCOLNS GHOST TRAIN
This story was told to me by my cousin Willie.
As a young man, he used to work for the railroad, clearing a two mile section of the tracks of debris. He worked what was called the Graveyard Shift, eleven PM til seven AM.
One moonlit night in April he was taking a break, sitting on a railroad tie by the side of the tracks, drinking hot coffee from his thermos. It was a warm night,a harbinger of the summer to come. Suddenly the moon went dark, as if obscured by a cloud, and a cold wind swept over him. He looked down the tracks, but it was as if a veil of darkness had fallen over the entire area, he could not even make out his own hand in front of his face.
Then the rails bega to gleam with a strange blue light. A headlight of a train pierced the darkness
A huge steam engine draped in black approached him,stacks billowing heavy smoke..It was pulling several cars behind it. He looked into the windows of the engine, but there was no crew.
Willie was nearly overcome with dread. As the flat cars being pulled by the engine approached, he began to hear faint, almost ghostly strains of music. Slowly materialising on the cars were men in blue uniforms like those worn by the north in the Civil War, playing a funeral dirge on glowing instruments.
On the last car there stood a single coffin, completely draped in black. As Willie stood there, nearly in shock,the blackness around him seemed to sparkle with tiny colored lights, coalescing and forming themselves into the shapes of more men in blue uniforms, saluting as the coffin went by on the silent train...The silence was deafening-there was no clack-clack of the wheels on the track, no train whistle, nothing.
Finally, the train passed,and the ghostly orchestra started up again .He could hear the strains of the music as the train made its way along the Hudson River, echoing through the mountains.
Willie knew then that he had just witnessed the fabled Phantom Funeral Train of Abraham Lincoln.
The next morning all the clocks of the Hudson Division were six minutes behind. All the trains were six minutes late.Willie figures that it took the train about six minutes to pass, and the story goes that the Lincoln Funeral Train stops time as it moves through the night. |
kathy decker
Intermediate Member
Username: fand
Post Number: 151
Registered: 3-2011
| | Posted on Thursday, October 18, 2012 - 11:04 pm: |
|
Captain Kidd’s Buried Treasure
As I mentioned previously, I grew up on the banks of the majestic Hudson River. The area is rife with ghost stories,and the fog-shrouded mountains lend a mysterious air, especially in the Autumn months.Our little town of Cornwall-on-Hudson is nestled at the foot of Storm King Mountain,a steep and craggy beast named for the fierce storms that rage up and down the river in the spring and fall months.
When you look down at the river from the road that encircles the mountain, you will see Bannerman's Island, a green bit of land in the center of the river, a little way up from West Point. There is a castle on the island, a big stone fortress,crumbling into decay,abandoned and forgotten.
As a child, we would often hear rumors about the island, tales of the pirate,Captain Kidd, who buried his treasure somewhere along the Hudson River.Our imaginations would immediately place the buried treasure on Bannermans Island. We would gaze at the island longingly, wishing we could get out there and search for pirate loot, spanish doubloons, gold and silver, moldering currency,precious jewels.
Of course we knew we could not go out there-our little rowboats could never withstand the legendary currents that surrounded the island.
One evening, just before dusk, I was riding my bike along Shore Road . I knew I should be heading home, but I had heard that my cousin Ockie had just discovered a new cave at the foot of Storm King, just a bit past the yacht club. I simply had to investigate and see if he was telling the truth.
The area there is riddled with caves,and my mom had warned me to stay away from there. In the days of the Great Depression, hoboes and others down on their luck would ride the rails and make camp there in the caves. They would often come up River Avenue, and knock on my grandmother's door, asking for a bit of food. My grandmother would always find a way to make a meager meal stretch to feed the hungry and homeless, but it left a lasting impression on my poor mother, who was afraid of the burly, unshaven men who came calling in the evenings
At any rate, I felt a bit of fear as I went searching for the new cave, wondering if I would find someone camping out in there along with the relics of an earlier age,an old iron "spider" or frying pan, bits of cutlery, remnants of a twenty year old campfire. The thought of these treasures spurred me on despite the fear. After all, I had never come across a real live hobo, and doubted that I ever would.The only living being I had ever encountered while exploring the caves was an elderly raccoon, who trundled out into the late afternoon sun, blinking his annoyance at being disturbed in such a rude manner.
I rode my bike to the very last bit of paved road, tossing it into the high red sumac as I headed out on foot along the railroad tracks. Following Ockie's directions, I climbed a bit of the mountain. There, almost halfway up the steep rocky bank, beneath an overhanging maple branch, I spotted a dark area. I had found the entrance to the cave!
Man, was I excited. I crawled inside, forgetting that it was getting late and soon would be pitch dark. The entrance was tiny, just barely big enough for an adult to enter if they were lying down and creeping, but once inside, there was plenty of room. There was a huge boulder in one corner, but otherwise the place seemed completely empty. A little let down, I prepared to exit. I had hoped to find some kind of hobo treasure to brag about to my cousins, but I was out of luck on this one. Ockie said he didn't have a chance to go inside, but, I thought, he probably lied and took all the good stuff.
Suddenly I heard voices. Darn! it was getting quite dark now, and I really should be home. The voices sounded rough, and a funny accent, too. Some of them sounded slurred, like my dad's voice on Friday nights, after he came home from the tavern on Idlewild Avenue.
This was not good. I was not a stupid child, and I knew enough to hide from drunken men. I also knew I would be in big trouble when I got home, but I went and hid behind the big boulder..
To this very day, I am not sure what it was that I witnessed that night. Three men came into the cave, pushing a big box of something. It was completely dark in there, yet the men seemed to give off their own light. They did not have a lantern or a flashlight, but they seemed to glow. They were dressed funny-short pants and boots, all dark, and a lot of gold jewelry. I was completely petrified-I could tell they were not nice people.They were arguing and drinking out of a silver flask.One of them was carrying a shovel and the other two told him to start digging. He didn't want to do it, but they made him. Then one of them hit him over the head with something. They tumbled him into the shallow grave he had dug for himself, then pushed the box on top of him. The tall one hastily covered everything up with dirt. The two remaining men then shared the rest of the
flask....and faded. They became dim, like a light bulb fading, and it grew darker and darker in the cave, until finally I was in complete blackness.
After a while, I gathered up enough courage to come out of my hiding place. There was no one there. I crawled out of the cave, just waiting for someone or something to grab my ankles and pull me back in. Fortunately, nothing did. The crescent moon was ridig high in the sky as I made my way back to my bike. Pockets of dank ground fog gathered in the hollows between the hills, and the sound of of the river lapping at the shore echoed eerily as I rode back down Shore Road to River Avenue. Only when I was some distance away did I dare to glance back toward the cave, and when I did, I saw creepy green tendrils escaping the entrance, winding their way down the mountainside toward the river.
I never went back.
I don't think captain Kidd's treasure is hidden on Bannerman's Island. I think it may very well be in a cave on Storm King Mountain, high above the Hudson River, with a dead man to guard the loot. |
Sharon2
Senior Member
Username: sharon2468
Post Number: 4414
Registered: 8-2004
| | Posted on Friday, October 19, 2012 - 9:52 am: |
|
OOOOO That was good, Kathy!
Our life is determined by the choices we make!
|
Sharon2
Senior Member
Username: sharon2468
Post Number: 4415
Registered: 8-2004
| | Posted on Friday, October 19, 2012 - 10:21 am: |
|
The man and woman had been married for almost three decades. The woman had recently discovered that her spouse had been secretly meeting a woman he used to know years ago. This was a betrayal that was indescribable to her because she had always trusted him with her body, mind and soul.
After months of pain, anger and disbelief, she was in the kitchen, cleaning off the counter, when suddenly from out of nowhere, a voice said clearly, behind her right shoulder, "He's done this before." The words were like a physical blow. With her heart pounding, she knew beyond a doubt that the message was true.
She confronted him with this new information and he acted stunned. "How did you find out?" He asked, thinking that someone must have called her.
"Someone who thought I should know the truth." she replied, looking him directly in the eye with calm, certainty.
Our life is determined by the choices we make!
|
kathy decker
Intermediate Member
Username: fand
Post Number: 153
Registered: 3-2011
| | Posted on Friday, October 19, 2012 - 11:09 am: |
|
Nice. I can see this becoming a mystery novel. |
Sharon2
Senior Member
Username: sharon2468
Post Number: 4421
Registered: 8-2004
| | Posted on Saturday, October 20, 2012 - 10:15 am: |
|
Kathy, have you ever thought of putting your haunted stories together in a collection?
That would be fun to read!
"The Hudson River Ghost Stories"
--------------------------------------------
Our life is determined by the choices we make!
|
kathy decker
Intermediate Member
Username: fand
Post Number: 154
Registered: 3-2011
| | Posted on Sunday, October 21, 2012 - 1:35 am: |
|
What a great idea! |
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