Long Trusses which support ancient, beloved structures towered above flowering hills of rock petunias.
Fog.
Shapes loomed menacingly therein. Mr. Bottlesby danced. His tresses shone, likewise his moustache glinted. His horse pranced like a naked bluebird.
When dewdrops collected fill prairie-streams, then all the world beckons. So Bottlesby answered the Call of Happiness and danced.
Dusk crept silently over the valley, and the Shapes grew, directing their minds to evil. Alarmed by their sudden emergence, Mr. Bottlesby halted his fierce steed and challenged with a volley of ringing song. The noted flamed through sky and shroud, beyond what mortal ears may perceive. At once, the mists parted before his piercing cry.
Terrified by such beauty, Hell's minions called reinforcements of screaming, wailing fiends who sang cacophonous, poisonous dirges of which consumed Bottlesby's fire.
Disheartened, his voice faltered, stuttered, and his moustache drooped. Fleeing from their deafening assault, he parted his tresses, withdrew a fife, and began to exhale lustily into the mouthpiece, creating a glorious melody akin to Dragonsong, an ornate and voluptuous tune which embraced the fiends, and with suffocating sweetness, launched them into the nearby ancient structures, wrecking their cupolas along the hillside.
Mr. Bottlesby sallied forward, rejoicing in his blow. Approaching the Shapes, he examined bodies of water collected from disaster. As his mined encountered peace, he was shaken with relief.
The Shapes spoke from within the mind of themselves.
"Why have such things come upon us in fury?"
"Because sinful song must be repaid in kind with virtuous vanquishings."
Fire erupted forthwith from the tresses of his virtue. Shrieks entailed the doom of the Shadow-men.
Glorious was the horizon, glowing with amber waves of delight, as Mr. Bottlesby rode away into everlasting song, on which volumes of love are written.
THE END OF THE FIRST EVENING OF THIS TALE.
When dewdrops collected fill prairie-streams, then all the world beckons. So Bottlesby answered the Call of Happiness and danced.
Dusk crept silently over the valley, and the Shapes grew, directing their minds to evil. Alarmed by their sudden emergence, Mr. Bottlesby halted his fierce steed and challenged with a volley of ringing song. The noted flamed through sky and shroud, beyond what mortal ears may perceive. At once, the mists parted before his piercing cry.
Terrified by such beauty, Hell's minions called reinforcements of screaming, wailing fiends who sang cacophonous, poisonous dirges of which consumed Bottlesby's fire.
Disheartened, his voice faltered, stuttered, and his moustache drooped. Fleeing from their deafening assault, he parted his tresses, withdrew a fife, and began to exhale lustily into the mouthpiece, creating a glorious melody akin to Dragonsong, an ornate and voluptuous tune which embraced the fiends, and with suffocating sweetness, launched them into the nearby ancient structures, wrecking their cupolas along the hillside.
Mr. Bottlesby sallied forward, rejoicing in his blow. Approaching the Shapes, he examined bodies of water collected from disaster. As his mined encountered peace, he was shaken with relief.
The Shapes spoke from within the mind of themselves.
"Why have such things come upon us in fury?"
"Because sinful song must be repaid in kind with virtuous vanquishings."
Fire erupted forthwith from the tresses of his virtue. Shrieks entailed the doom of the Shadow-men.
Glorious was the horizon, glowing with amber waves of delight, as Mr. Bottlesby rode away into everlasting song, on which volumes of love are written.
THE END OF THE FIRST EVENING OF THIS TALE.
No comments:
Post a Comment