A Suicide of Crows (Ch2)

Chapter Two

I

He looked like the creepy dude in
phantasm, dressed in all black
suit, tie, hat.

He liked to stand in the
mirror with the muted light
of the sun setting into
the edge of the world.

The interplay of light and
shadows popped in his
synapses, making him
feel alive.

He felt he could read
and heal his own aura.

Something he developed through
his writing experiments, learned
on The Site.

He learned so much from The Site.

II

They decided go with green
name tags for moderators.

Of which there were five.

To the left of the bathroom
sink, his name tag seemed to
summon his attention.

The letters written in
black ink:

Spell_Bind.

He was a writer of free
form prose and a little
BDSM.

Putting the name tag
in his pocket, he straightened
his tie one last time.

To the left of the sink,
a train ticket.

Which he picked up,
putting in his other pocket.

Netherwood, here I come.

III

Netherwood, a place of
much legend and lore.

Hidden away, beyond
the edge of the world.

Few had ever stepped
foot on the land.

There were rumors
of UFOs, ghosts and
cryptids.

Some believed it was
a doorway to another
world.

In the middle of the
forest was a standing
stone structure, said
to predate the arrival
of Columbus.

Some said it was
Atlantian or Lemurian.

IV

Supposedly the land was
owned by the owner of The Site,
who few really knew
existed.

After the first few years of
the site, he posted under his
original username.

But after that, he matriculated
through a number of aliases
and alts, his own personal
explorations and experiments.

The moderators had to infer
his wishes from the depths
of his poetry, written through
various voices and masks.

Then…

A message alert in the
private moderator forum,
after years of dormancy.

The site is closing down.

V

The active members, of
which there were around
twenty, went through a
series of reactions, each
consistent with a very
individuated response,
all equally grief stricken
and devastated.

Out of the hundreds, that
had been members over
the years, it was twenty
that agreed and organized
the trip.

Spell_Bind watched
the scenery in the train
window, his first train
ride since his childhood.

He got to thinking
about the innocence of
youth, holding back the
tears.

Maybe it  was all just
a sign of the times.

Yes, a sign of the
times.

And poets could read
the signs.

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NAPO.
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