Once 8 replies

Please wait...

SeinfeldisKindaOk

5.56 smoke Haji every day

55 XP

18th July 2008

0 Uploads

8,397 Posts

0 Threads

#1 8 years ago

there were brook trout in the streams and the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand, polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculite patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming, maps and mazes, of a thing which could not be put back, not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man, and they hummed of mystery.




Museum

the operator

50 XP

28th October 2005

0 Uploads

10,069 Posts

0 Threads

#2 8 years ago

what were their names




SeinfeldisKindaOk

5.56 smoke Haji every day

55 XP

18th July 2008

0 Uploads

8,397 Posts

0 Threads

#3 8 years ago

One was Kilgore.




Museum

the operator

50 XP

28th October 2005

0 Uploads

10,069 Posts

0 Threads

#4 8 years ago

i'd like one to be called Jerminie




SeinfeldisKindaOk

5.56 smoke Haji every day

55 XP

18th July 2008

0 Uploads

8,397 Posts

0 Threads

#5 8 years ago

No. That's a silly name for a fish.




Museum

the operator

50 XP

28th October 2005

0 Uploads

10,069 Posts

0 Threads

#6 8 years ago

:(.




SeinfeldisKindaOk

5.56 smoke Haji every day

55 XP

18th July 2008

0 Uploads

8,397 Posts

0 Threads

#7 8 years ago

Don't cry. It's a good name for a horse. Would... would you like to have a horse named that?




Museum

the operator

50 XP

28th October 2005

0 Uploads

10,069 Posts

0 Threads

#8 8 years ago

that would be perfection




Metall_pingwin

Call me Pingwin

50 XP

26th May 2005

0 Uploads

7,238 Posts

0 Threads

#9 8 years ago
Professor Dr. Scientist;5238458there were brook trout in the streams and the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand, polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculite patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming, maps and mazes, of a thing which could not be put back, not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man, and they hummed of mystery.

A dead road snakes and weaves it's way through thick forests like a deep bronze scar. The thick treetops and heavy overgrowth have made it nearly unrecognisable to the human eye, and it is now only traversed by the few rugged woodsmen who live in the area. Little sunlight reaches the bottom of the forest, and when mother nature does run her thin, long, golden fingers across its surface she quickly flinches at the touch of her imperfections. The morning dew however has few such inhibitions, and has cultivated an impenetrable layer of spongy moss which entangles both earth and flora, protecting it and keeping it warm. In this, and the everpresent aroma of rotting wood thrive bulbous mushrooms and furry little creatures who hop around in innocent delight - occasionally setting off a puffball and fleeing playfully - their biggest worry when the thick powder irritates the eyes, having to be carefully removed, bit by bit, from each strand of fur.