Graveyard Whistling.
Full Text by P. Demian at: TUMBLR.
Diffuse light came from the fire nearby. Eight figures, stoic and silent, craving, longing, waiting. Each year was the same, and Fred was starting to think that was boring. It always started like that: one moment you could be having dinner, taking a shower or catching up a movie on your couch and suddenly you were there, fully dressed in clothes you didn't even possessed. Black and grey, but nothing you couldn't buy in any mall.
-Where are we this time, anyway?
-Fred.
Always a different place, everything pitch black except by a glint of light just enough to make you notice you weren't alone. Out of the other seven figures, Fred could only talk to Jareth. The others didn't speak the same language, or didn't seem able to talk at all. But they all looked human.
No man shall remain sane. No fire shall remain dead.
