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    Dreams of the Damned, Vol. 2
    Dreams of the Damned, Vol. 2
    Dreams of the Damned, Vol. 2
    Ebook69 pages51 minutes

    Dreams of the Damned, Vol. 2

    By Edward Fortman

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    About this ebook

    Listen, as the night is quiet and the shadows creep close, to forgotten tales, once
    untold. See, as a shade sits and speaks of dark realms unseen by most. And, give
    peace to those lost souls who long for Life to bear witness to their deeds.

    Herein awaits the story of a father who tries to save his son from death; a tale of
    two nightmares, one of which is real; and the quest of a woman who seeks to find her
    groove and, instead, discovers her strength. More visions lie within this tome,
    painted by the whispering voice of a wretched soul.

    And, once the tales are done, in verse and in prose, a dark road continues: A
    journey, the end of which is unforeseen, and the path of which is thirsty for blood.
    So, come, travel the dark roads, to feel the camaraderie of lost souls, and to dream
    the dreams of the damned ...

    This series of short books will be published every month or two for the outrageously
    egotistical price of $0.99 cents. Each book will contain stories and poetry in the
    vein of Weird Fiction and Dark Fantasy. Also, artwork from the days of yore in the
    printing industry will grace its pages, and other miscellaneous goodies await the
    intrepid reader.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherEdward Fortman
    Release dateJul 31, 2014
    ISBN9780991399536
    Dreams of the Damned, Vol. 2
    Author

    Edward Fortman

    Edward Fortman lives in Canton, Ohio, with his gal and their two crazy boys. Aside from working on his own writing, he and his gal own and operate a small business, meaning that he spends much of his day cussing about how there's always too much work to do.

    Read more from Edward Fortman

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      Book preview

      Dreams of the Damned, Vol. 2 - Edward Fortman

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright 2014 EtherWind Communication Services, Inc.

      Dedication

      Words, the pen scribing them, the hand shaping them, the arms and body of the living soul placing the pages that await them with impatience onto the desk, and the mind, thinking, I have an idea! all belong to the storyteller, great and proud, or impoverished and unnoticed. Some find fame during life, while others, dreaming of fame, only find it after death or never at all. Yet, this phenomenon is only recent, even though it may be several centuries old. Before this quest for fame (for which all artists are guilty, whether consciously or not) lived the ancient storyteller, the tribal shaman spreading the words of their gods, or the village folks spinning yarns for the pleasure of a laugh, the gravity of a tear or the satisfaction of a simple nod. To those ancient folks, I dedicate this work. For, without their desire to tell tales, true or tall, our modern storytellers may not exist.

      Table of Contents

      • Frontispiece

      • Dedication

      • By Way of an Introduction

      • Where art thou, Muse?

      • Ad Interim • I

      • Under the Barn

      • Ad Interim • II

      • The Railroad of the Past

      • Ad Interim • III

      • Sleep, Peacefully. Sleep ...

      • Ad Interim • IV

      • Tarnished Gold

      • Ad Interim • V

      • We Welcome You Living

      • Ad Interim • VI

      • (untitled) I watch the world go by ...

      • By Way of a Parting

      • Contact, Legalese, Acknowledgements &c.

      • Author Biography & A Note on the Artwork

      By Way of an Introduction

      (Please note that, since our editor enjoyed the idea so much and, in all truth, sought a reason to add more subtitles ... )

      ( ... which are, of course, written by staff writers, rather than the editor himself—the lazy navvy—this introduction is a continuing narrative ... )

      ( ... one that began in this worthy tome, published in the heady days of January, when the ice was solid, and the chill sunk into the bones, and hope sang in the air ...)

      ( ... only to cough while breathing in, in order to let out a choking, halting rendition of some sappy song the writing staff refuse to hear, since melancholic psycho is part of the job description ... )

      ( ... Last we spoke, we met the Painter of Dreams, who spun a few tales worthy of the midnight hour in which the apparition appears ... )

      ( ... and we’ve begun a quest, the likes of which we’ve yet to hear. With torches wrapped and eyes looking ahead, we’ve trod upon the forest path for many a night, and a path of blood, it has become ... )

      Welcome, gentle reader. Do you join this narrative once again, perhaps? If so, then I offer a humble thanks to you for venturing into this nightmare realm. And, should you be joining me on this dark road for the first time, I bid you welcome to this realm of dreams, and to this waking nightmare that may, perchance, be darker than the dreams themselves. Of course, such opinions are mere guesses on my part, accidental bits of egotism that had escaped from the depths of my wretched soul. Such opinions belong to you, gentle reader, for only you can determine the style and, especially!, the quality of what lies ahead.

      The road upon which we travel has been long and dark, our path a narrow tunnel stretching as far as our torches’ light will reach and as wide as the trees caught by the meager light. Above, the roof appears in spots as a leaf or branch, here and there, shows its face or limb. The remainder of the tunnel encloses our path in an impenetrable wall of darkness. The stones beneath our feet are hard and uneven, sometimes poking a rocky blade into the soles of our boots.

      Blood … this path reeks of it. Old blood, congealed, yet still thick and sliding, ever so slowly, down the sharp rocks to feed the soil beneath.

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