And there was noise within the walls, music within the walls, whispers within the walls that shook like beads and rivers and teeth–children’s teeth, but not too young and not too old. She’d never liked the old ones. Or the small ones, the soft ones and their melting, misshapen marshmallow skin.
My voice
dark, somber tones
compelling, enticing
come a little closer
just a bit more
you’ll feel my bite
for my words
poisonous snake’s rattle
poetwarrior
An impossibly loud sound arced over the horizon and infiltrated their lonely campsite, stirring them from sleep perhaps even quicker than a bear or wolf – though, those sounds would have brought comfort to them, I think, given the nature of this call being somewhere between a rattle and a scream.
The cold seemed to less chilling than the sound still shaking their bones. These roads had long been abandoned – they were used by logging companies before that industry crashed sometime in the 70’s – and stories had been passed down from worker to worker, family to family, about the odd things those laborers experienced in the deep woods. It was an odd mix of folk superstitions and alcohol, no doubt, but this sound was enough to sober any man from his spins and intoxicate him instead with fear of the former.
They had been warned about this phenomenon before departing from the Sanrin Shrine, which stood at the bottom of the mountain and served as this trail’s gateway – into what?
The villagers allowed the shrine to be reclaimed by nature over the years – and yet the steps and stone torii do not give in to rain, or snow, or even fallen branches from the mighty pines that surrounded it. Moss as slowly eaten away at the stone, and yet it is unable to hide its steps and walls. This resilience led them to believe that deities awoken by the screeching of machinery and silent screams of ancient cedars (manifested, one said, in the weight one feels on their conscience as the giant trunk chaotically stumbles down the mountainside) refused to let the Sanrin Shrine return to nature.
The Shrine has since stood as a symbol of their hubris and shame, offerings coming from only those laborers now nearing the end of their life, perhaps seeking some atonement for sins unnamed.
…somewhere across the vast valley ahead of them, the sound echoed through the night – quieter than the first, but somehow more unnerving. One of them lit a cigarette, a futile attempt to silence his imagination. Its faint red glow the only light for miles – the dull shining of stars seemed at times to give into the darkness, a twinkle like a faint scream as it resisted falling completely into the night sky.
The campers spent a week in the village before departing, and this sound was second nature to its folk. When it fell upon the village, the men, women, and children would turn toward the mountain in near unison, waiting, gauging their fear. When it came back louder, the expressions frozen behind fear would melt through to their faces, expressions of…relief? It was only on silent nights, they observed, that villagers stayed in their homes, not letting a single light escape from the closed curtains of their humble homes – not letting a single expression betray their feelings. They had never seen a festival so unpopulated by people until the night before their departure: the first scream echoed from the mountaintops, and they waited. The second sound was faint, more distant sounding – but it sent the village into a calculated panic.
The streets glowed red, that evening, and not a single sound dared to break the silence.
Reaching the end of his cigarette, the man crushed its bud beneath his foot. The sound of the gravel beneath his toes seemed terribly loud, and only then was he cognizant of the great silence that had fallen over the valley.
The air was still, and even the trees seemed to fear making a sound at even the slightest breeze, should one even come. The man looked up, and I could see bewilderment cross his face as one by one, all those faint, twinkling stars were sucked into the night sky, the weight of their silent pleas for help gripping his heart.
He could feel the malice of the mountain closing in around him, a thousand eyes unseen bearing a hatred as palpable as his own fear and awe. His knees gave way to an unknown force, and he fell to the ground. He felt his chest grow tight, and he quickly clapped his hands together in desperation, praying to something, anything, that might save him from this darkness. As he prayed, his ears filled with a dull hum, growing louder, and louder, and louder, until finally the pressure forced his eyes open – and he saw it.
The crushed bud of his cigarette was lay crushed in front of him. Releasing his hands, he slowly reached out. The humming grew louder still; his arm seemed to move less through air than through water. His chest was on fire. He fell forward, his hand grasping a handful of gravel containing the cigarette bud. Before he could place it in his pocket, his world turned to black.
Movement returned to the valley as a light breeze whistled through the pines. The darkness receded and the stars once again pushed through the night sky.
One star, the villagers noticed, shone brighter than the others.
It was the first time any of them had seen it.
They paused for a long while, in both anticipation and awe, until the ear-piercing rattle-scream arced over the horizon once more.
Only then did the villagers smile, and continue about their day as usual.
She opened the box and grasped the wooden rattle her grandfather had made for her mother. Marveling at the intricate pattern – a green paisley print interspersed with yellow stars – she couldn’t help but be excited at the thought of her little bundle of joy entering the world.
*sigh* she was soooooooo tired she flopped on to bed lisa had come home from school her mum and dad were out she was by her self it started to get dark she shivered it was cold she dident like being by her self she went to sleep lisa awok abriptely what was that neiws it came from the attic *rattle* *rattle* she froze what was it. She was the only person here she slowly stood up she walked down to the attic *rattle**rattle she slowly opened the door *creak* she looked in and turned the lieght on ahh! she shouted it was just a small citten she luaghed ha ha ha ha ha! it was so cute she cept it and evry one loved it
WolfHeart
I want a baby that will be healthy, cute, and have a good mood. He will play with rattles. Blue, green, red, and yellow, he will love them all. He will be my first borne. The guardian for a second sibling. A responsible, lovely, proper mannered little angel.
if you rattle a box, you can tell if it’s huge, or tiny, or metal. But you can’t tell what it is unless you open the box. You can’t assume that two things that sound the same are the same.
An impossibly loud sound arced over the horizon and infiltrated their lonely campsite, stirring them from sleep perhaps even quicker than a bear or wolf – though, those sounds would have brought comfort to them, I think, given the nature of this call being somewhere between a rattle and a scream.
The cold seemed to less chilling than the sound still shaking their bones. These roads had long been abandoned – they were used by logging companies before that industry crashed sometime in the 70s – and stories had been passed down from worker to worker, family to family, about the odd things those laborers experienced in the deep woods. It was an odd mix of folk superstitions and acohol, no doubt, but this sound was enough to sober any man from his spins and intoxicate him instead with fear of the former.
He had been warned about this phenomonon before departing from the Sanrin Shrine, which stood at the bottom of the mountain and served as this trail’s gateway – into what?
The villagers allowed the shrine to return to nature over the years – and yet the steps and stone torii do not give in to rain, or snow, or even fallen branches from the mighty pines that surrounded it. Moss as slowly eaten away at the stone, and yet it is unable to hide its steps and walls. This resiliance led them to believe that deities awoken by the screeching of machinery and silent screams of ancient cedars (manifested, one said, in the weight one feels on their conscience as the giant trunk chaotically stumbles down the mountainside) refused to let the Sanrin Shrine return to nature.
The Shrine has since stood as a symbol of their hubris and shame, offerings coming from only those laborers now nearing the end of their life, perhaps seeking some atonement for sins unnamed.
…somewhere across the vast valley ahead of them, the sound echoed through the night – quieter than the first, but somehow more unnerving. One of them lit a cigarette, a futile attempt to silence his imagination. Its faint red glow the only light for miles – the dull shining of stars seemed at times to give into the darkness, a twinkle like a faint scream as it resisted falling completely into the night sky.
The campers spent a week in the village before departing, and this sound was second nature to its folk. When it fell upon the village, the men, women, and children would turn toward the mountain in near unison, waiting, guaging their fear. When it came back louder, the expressions frozen behind fear would melt through to their faces, expressions of…releif? It was only on silent nights, they observed, that villagers stayed in their homes, not letting a single light escape from the closed curtains of their humble homes – not letting a single expression betray their feelings. They had never seen a festival unpopulated by people until the night before their departure: the first scream echoed from the mountaintops, and they waited. The second sound was faint, more distant sounding – but it sent the village into a calculated panic.
The streets glowed red, that evening, and not a single sound dared to break the silence.
Reaching the end of his cigarette, the man crushed its bud beneath his foot. The sound of the gravel beneath his toes seemed terribly loud, and only then was he cognizant of the great silence that had fallen over the valley.
The air was still, and even the trees seemed to fear making a sound at even the slightest breeze, should one even come. The man looked up, and I could see bewilderment cross his face as one by one, all those faint, twinkling stars were sucked into the night sky, the weight of their silent pleas for help gripping his heart.
An impossibly loud sound arced over the horizon and infiltrated their lonely campsite, stirring them from sleep perhaps even quicker than a bear or wolf – though, those sounds would have brought comfort to them, I think, given the nature of this call being somewhere between a rattle and a scream.
The cold seemed to less chilling than the sound still shaking their bones. These roads had long been abandoned – they were used by logging companies before that industry crashed sometime in the 70s – and stories had been passed down from worker to worker, family to family, about the odd things those laborers experienced in the deep woods. It was an odd mix of folk superstitions and acohol, no doubt, but this sound was enough to sober any man from his spins and intoxicate him instead with fear of the former.
They had been warned about this phenomonon before departing from the Sanrin Shrine, which stood at the bottom of the mountain and served as this trail’s gateway – into what?
The villagers allowed the shrine to return to nature over the years – and yet the steps and stone torii do not give in to rain, or snow, or even fallen branches from the mighty pines that surrounded it. Moss as slowly eaten away at the stone, and yet it is unable to hide its steps and walls. This resiliance led them to believe that deities awoken by the screeching of machinery and silent screams of ancient cedars (manifested, one said, in the weight one feels on their conscience as the giant trunk chaotically stumbles down the mountainside) refused to let the Sanrin Shrine return to nature.
The Shrine has since stood as a symbol of their hubris and shame, offerings coming from only those laborers now nearing the end of their life, perhaps seeking some atonement for sins unnamed.
…somewhere across the vast valley ahead of them, the sound echoed through the night – quieter than the first, but somehow more unnerving. One of them lit a cigarette, a futile attempt to silence his imagination. Its faint red glow the only light for miles – the dull shining of stars seemed at times to give into the darkness, a twinkle like a faint scream as it resisted falling completely into the night sky.
The campers spent a week in the village before departing, and this sound was second nature to its folk. When it fell upon the village, the men, women, and children would turn toward the mountain in near unison, waiting, guaging their fear. When it came back louder, the expressions frozen behind fear would melt through to their faces, expressions of…releif? It was only on silent nights, they observed, that villagers stayed in their homes, not letting a single light escape from the closed curtains of their humble homes – not letting a single expression betray their feelings. They had never seen a festival unpopulated by people until the night before their departure: the first scream echoed from the mountaintops, and they waited. The second sound was faint, more distant sounding – but it sent the village into a calculated panic.
The streets glowed red, that evening, and not a single sound dared to break the silence.
Reaching the end of his cigarette, the man crushed its bud beneath his foot. The sound of the gravel beneath his toes seemed terribly loud, and only then was he cognizant of the great silence that had fallen over the valley.
The air was still, and even the trees seemed to fear making a sound at even the slightest breeze, should one even come. The man looked up, and I could see bewilderment cross his face as one by one, all those faint, twinkling stars were sucked into the night sky, the weight of their silent pleas for help gripping his heart.
He could feel the malice of the mountain closing in around him, a thousand eyes unseen bearing a hatred as palpable as his own fear and awe. His knees gave way to an unknown force, and he fell to the ground. He felt his chest grow tight, and he quickly clapped his hands together in desperation, praying to something, anything, that might save him from this darkness. As he prayed, his ears filled with a dull hum, growing louder, and louder, and louder, until finally the pressure forced his eyes open – and he saw it.
The crushed bud of his cigarette was lay crushed in front of him. Releasing his hands, he slowly reached out. The humming grew louder still; his arm seemed to move less through air than through water. His chest was on fire. He fell forward, his hand grasping a handfull of gravel containing the cigarette bud. Before he could place it in his pocket, his world turned to black.
Movementreturned to the valley as a light breeze whistled through the pines. The darkness receded and the stars once again pushed through the night sky.
One star, the villagers noticed, shone brigther than the others.
It was the first time any of them had seen it.
(this did not take 60 seconds, and I got a liiiiiiittle carried away…)
The baby shook the rattle and grinned in delight. Drool ran down her chin and a gurgle came from her chubby little tummy. The other end of the snake was harmless since I’d cut off it’s head.
we were 4 hours into our trip. the sun was scorching, but we didn’t mind, if anything it was a welcome change after the brutal winter back home. Everything was perfect, that is until we heard the rattle.
Rat a tat tat. Rat a tat tat. Rattle. Tattle. When you’re rattled, do you tattle? Are supposed to deal or ask and by consequence tell on the person. Who do you tell when you’re rattled? Jesus, receive wisdom from above. Let him guide, then when you talk later you can give the testimony of Christ the overcomer.
Carmen Andersen
The baby’s rattle rolls out of the bag one the young woman set it on the floor and a man tripped on it. The man fell face first into a plate of food on a table and then bounced off. He sued for damages and won sadly, which caused the young woman to go into bankruptcy.
his breath sounded like a rattle as he breathed. His blood was flowing from him in a manner that made it impossible for him to live any longer. As he rattled his last breathe out I let go of his hand.
Lyndsey Wanner
I didn’t have a rattle when I was a baby. Although rattle could be referring to the feeling of being rattled. I typical feel rattled, it’s kind of just my personality.
Lyndsey Wanner
If I have only 60 hours for doing something on internet I would download all episodes of my favorite movies and so much musics . However İf it’s going to happen I wouldn’t do some researchs about what ı want to learn because we have so much alternatives to learn them like books and encyclopedias.Also I would share pictures about things which was came interesting for me.
Ceren Utku
i think of a baby well duh because babies use rattles to keep them busy like some people use food to not be hungry why am i doing this i could be working out why are they letting me start the time again they just rattled my chain got me worked uo and now im stuck its onky 1 min calm down mispelling alot
un4given
I don’t understand how a woman who has tempted a married man gets rattled when he makes up with his wife. I just saw this scene play out in a movie.
the snake rattle as it was trying to capture the little boy that was running wild in the grass smelling the sweet lemon scent with it . And the boy was filled with joy and screaming because he found a butterfly and showed it to his mother who was laughing at seeing how beautiful her boy was.
Ashley
Seth drove the old truck through the desert, deciding to ignore the rattle coming from beneath his seat. He kept looking into the rear-view mirror but no other vehicles followed him. He parked next to a rock outcrop and climbed to the summit. There was only sand, other rock outcrops and horizon. No dust clouds which would indicate that they were following him. He was safe.
When he returned to the trip and started it again, the engine revved for a moment before dying. Now Seth wondered, if he was really safe. The night was closing in and he had no warm clothing, nor extra food or water. This could be very bad.
Slight touch. Bones shaking, yet remain still as dying breath. Unnerved, they lay prickling on the outside of your skin. Creature staring into the bright lights, too taken in by the moment to make a move, to run away, to stand their ground. If you stand still, pretending the lights aren’t there, pretending they’re intending no hurt, do the lights pass through you, harmless? How long can one pretend the lights aren’t barreling down toward them, going through the motions of them not being there at all? If you stand still-if you don’t acknowledge- what you pretend not to feel pressing down on you- what you refuse to know won’t hurt you? Standing still; just beneath the skin, bones chink and clack and grind, singing a song of their own. A touch, barreling down, bright, soft, slipping underneath the skin, caressing bone, impact imminent, wide-eyed, taking a risk, looking up, thank god you’ve looked away.
Live to feel your marrow swim another day.
She heard a sound behind her but didn’t dare turn to look. She hugged her sweater tighter and pressed onwards through the forest, tripping over the underbrush and ducking against the twilight. Again, the sound came, closer than before. She thought about running, but convinced she would only fall to certain harm, she pressed onwards.
I heard the rattle, right outside my bedroom door. That was when I started hearing those mysterious rattles. Little did I know, that those rattles were warning me, telling me to be careful. But I just ignored them.
Escuchaba un traqueteo a lo lejos, en la oscuridad del pasillo. Temblaba. Sentado en el suelo, protegía la cabeza entre sus rodillas y con sus manos cubría su cara. Quizás pensara que así desaparecería y quien hubiera tras ese sonido constante dejaría de buscarle.
I would look my all social media apps than I will download lot’s of games because if there is not internet it would be so boring .I will also download lot’s of films and youtube videos to watch later.In last minutes I would surf in internet and when it’s gone I will be so sad and I will watch the films which I download before or I listen music.
Cansu Eken
The thoughts inside my head. The dishes when they are dirty. The feelings that bounce around inside like soft balls or old dogs barking because you can’t let them out. The words inside your mind that loll behind your tongue so you bite your teeth together.
She is twelve years old the time it first happens – the utensils begin to vibrate in their drawers, the floorboards slamming together, the pots and pans clanging. Their state is hardly known for earthquakes, and yet – well, and yet.
People say I rattle a lot but im sorry I have a lot on my mind and can’t speak the words i feel. I can hear the demons rattle in my head when i can’t tell the difference between right and wrong.
mary alice
The sobs wracking through her body as she falls to the ground, unable to hold herself up anymore. She fights against her daughters as they try to calm her, while trying not to break down themselves. She screams his name repeatedly in between sobs, not wanting to accept that he was gone. She sits there shaking, crying, cigarette in one hand, the other hand clenching and unclenching, as the news sinks in. As she fully realizes that he’s gone, a new wave of screams and cries wash over her, and the shrill cries filled with misery and heartache rattle me to my very core.
There goes the gang of rattlesnakes – rattle, rattle, rattle. You tell a lie to them and they will tattle, tattle, tattle. If you get caught for lying, don’t you prattle, prattle, prattle. Because the gang will listen to you: Rattle, rattle, rattle.
Belinda Roddie
rattle
xian
I hid inside while the door rattled. The knob twisted and turned as the latch struggled to break free, but it couldn’t. It’d be locked forever if that was what it took.
Maddy
this is a snake or a noise almost a feeling. It can be related to an earthquake, and the earth rattles and so does your crockery.
Leigh Hynes
There’s a rattle in his breath as his shoulders heave and his bloodshot eyes widen. The sound wakes the baby, and even from outside I can hear the music from her baby rattle. There’s a rattle in the grass, followed by a warning hiss, and a shard of ice drops through my chest.
And there was noise within the walls, music within the walls, whispers within the walls that shook like beads and rivers and teeth–children’s teeth, but not too young and not too old. She’d never liked the old ones. Or the small ones, the soft ones and their melting, misshapen marshmallow skin.
My voice
dark, somber tones
compelling, enticing
come a little closer
just a bit more
you’ll feel my bite
for my words
poisonous snake’s rattle
An impossibly loud sound arced over the horizon and infiltrated their lonely campsite, stirring them from sleep perhaps even quicker than a bear or wolf – though, those sounds would have brought comfort to them, I think, given the nature of this call being somewhere between a rattle and a scream.
The cold seemed to less chilling than the sound still shaking their bones. These roads had long been abandoned – they were used by logging companies before that industry crashed sometime in the 70’s – and stories had been passed down from worker to worker, family to family, about the odd things those laborers experienced in the deep woods. It was an odd mix of folk superstitions and alcohol, no doubt, but this sound was enough to sober any man from his spins and intoxicate him instead with fear of the former.
They had been warned about this phenomenon before departing from the Sanrin Shrine, which stood at the bottom of the mountain and served as this trail’s gateway – into what?
The villagers allowed the shrine to be reclaimed by nature over the years – and yet the steps and stone torii do not give in to rain, or snow, or even fallen branches from the mighty pines that surrounded it. Moss as slowly eaten away at the stone, and yet it is unable to hide its steps and walls. This resilience led them to believe that deities awoken by the screeching of machinery and silent screams of ancient cedars (manifested, one said, in the weight one feels on their conscience as the giant trunk chaotically stumbles down the mountainside) refused to let the Sanrin Shrine return to nature.
The Shrine has since stood as a symbol of their hubris and shame, offerings coming from only those laborers now nearing the end of their life, perhaps seeking some atonement for sins unnamed.
…somewhere across the vast valley ahead of them, the sound echoed through the night – quieter than the first, but somehow more unnerving. One of them lit a cigarette, a futile attempt to silence his imagination. Its faint red glow the only light for miles – the dull shining of stars seemed at times to give into the darkness, a twinkle like a faint scream as it resisted falling completely into the night sky.
The campers spent a week in the village before departing, and this sound was second nature to its folk. When it fell upon the village, the men, women, and children would turn toward the mountain in near unison, waiting, gauging their fear. When it came back louder, the expressions frozen behind fear would melt through to their faces, expressions of…relief? It was only on silent nights, they observed, that villagers stayed in their homes, not letting a single light escape from the closed curtains of their humble homes – not letting a single expression betray their feelings. They had never seen a festival so unpopulated by people until the night before their departure: the first scream echoed from the mountaintops, and they waited. The second sound was faint, more distant sounding – but it sent the village into a calculated panic.
The streets glowed red, that evening, and not a single sound dared to break the silence.
Reaching the end of his cigarette, the man crushed its bud beneath his foot. The sound of the gravel beneath his toes seemed terribly loud, and only then was he cognizant of the great silence that had fallen over the valley.
The air was still, and even the trees seemed to fear making a sound at even the slightest breeze, should one even come. The man looked up, and I could see bewilderment cross his face as one by one, all those faint, twinkling stars were sucked into the night sky, the weight of their silent pleas for help gripping his heart.
He could feel the malice of the mountain closing in around him, a thousand eyes unseen bearing a hatred as palpable as his own fear and awe. His knees gave way to an unknown force, and he fell to the ground. He felt his chest grow tight, and he quickly clapped his hands together in desperation, praying to something, anything, that might save him from this darkness. As he prayed, his ears filled with a dull hum, growing louder, and louder, and louder, until finally the pressure forced his eyes open – and he saw it.
The crushed bud of his cigarette was lay crushed in front of him. Releasing his hands, he slowly reached out. The humming grew louder still; his arm seemed to move less through air than through water. His chest was on fire. He fell forward, his hand grasping a handful of gravel containing the cigarette bud. Before he could place it in his pocket, his world turned to black.
Movement returned to the valley as a light breeze whistled through the pines. The darkness receded and the stars once again pushed through the night sky.
One star, the villagers noticed, shone brighter than the others.
It was the first time any of them had seen it.
They paused for a long while, in both anticipation and awe, until the ear-piercing rattle-scream arced over the horizon once more.
Only then did the villagers smile, and continue about their day as usual.
She opened the box and grasped the wooden rattle her grandfather had made for her mother. Marveling at the intricate pattern – a green paisley print interspersed with yellow stars – she couldn’t help but be excited at the thought of her little bundle of joy entering the world.
*sigh* she was soooooooo tired she flopped on to bed lisa had come home from school her mum and dad were out she was by her self it started to get dark she shivered it was cold she dident like being by her self she went to sleep lisa awok abriptely what was that neiws it came from the attic *rattle* *rattle* she froze what was it. She was the only person here she slowly stood up she walked down to the attic *rattle**rattle she slowly opened the door *creak* she looked in and turned the lieght on ahh! she shouted it was just a small citten she luaghed ha ha ha ha ha! it was so cute she cept it and evry one loved it
I want a baby that will be healthy, cute, and have a good mood. He will play with rattles. Blue, green, red, and yellow, he will love them all. He will be my first borne. The guardian for a second sibling. A responsible, lovely, proper mannered little angel.
if you rattle a box, you can tell if it’s huge, or tiny, or metal. But you can’t tell what it is unless you open the box. You can’t assume that two things that sound the same are the same.
An impossibly loud sound arced over the horizon and infiltrated their lonely campsite, stirring them from sleep perhaps even quicker than a bear or wolf – though, those sounds would have brought comfort to them, I think, given the nature of this call being somewhere between a rattle and a scream.
The cold seemed to less chilling than the sound still shaking their bones. These roads had long been abandoned – they were used by logging companies before that industry crashed sometime in the 70s – and stories had been passed down from worker to worker, family to family, about the odd things those laborers experienced in the deep woods. It was an odd mix of folk superstitions and acohol, no doubt, but this sound was enough to sober any man from his spins and intoxicate him instead with fear of the former.
He had been warned about this phenomonon before departing from the Sanrin Shrine, which stood at the bottom of the mountain and served as this trail’s gateway – into what?
The villagers allowed the shrine to return to nature over the years – and yet the steps and stone torii do not give in to rain, or snow, or even fallen branches from the mighty pines that surrounded it. Moss as slowly eaten away at the stone, and yet it is unable to hide its steps and walls. This resiliance led them to believe that deities awoken by the screeching of machinery and silent screams of ancient cedars (manifested, one said, in the weight one feels on their conscience as the giant trunk chaotically stumbles down the mountainside) refused to let the Sanrin Shrine return to nature.
The Shrine has since stood as a symbol of their hubris and shame, offerings coming from only those laborers now nearing the end of their life, perhaps seeking some atonement for sins unnamed.
…somewhere across the vast valley ahead of them, the sound echoed through the night – quieter than the first, but somehow more unnerving. One of them lit a cigarette, a futile attempt to silence his imagination. Its faint red glow the only light for miles – the dull shining of stars seemed at times to give into the darkness, a twinkle like a faint scream as it resisted falling completely into the night sky.
The campers spent a week in the village before departing, and this sound was second nature to its folk. When it fell upon the village, the men, women, and children would turn toward the mountain in near unison, waiting, guaging their fear. When it came back louder, the expressions frozen behind fear would melt through to their faces, expressions of…releif? It was only on silent nights, they observed, that villagers stayed in their homes, not letting a single light escape from the closed curtains of their humble homes – not letting a single expression betray their feelings. They had never seen a festival unpopulated by people until the night before their departure: the first scream echoed from the mountaintops, and they waited. The second sound was faint, more distant sounding – but it sent the village into a calculated panic.
The streets glowed red, that evening, and not a single sound dared to break the silence.
Reaching the end of his cigarette, the man crushed its bud beneath his foot. The sound of the gravel beneath his toes seemed terribly loud, and only then was he cognizant of the great silence that had fallen over the valley.
The air was still, and even the trees seemed to fear making a sound at even the slightest breeze, should one even come. The man looked up, and I could see bewilderment cross his face as one by one, all those faint, twinkling stars were sucked into the night sky, the weight of their silent pleas for help gripping his heart.
An impossibly loud sound arced over the horizon and infiltrated their lonely campsite, stirring them from sleep perhaps even quicker than a bear or wolf – though, those sounds would have brought comfort to them, I think, given the nature of this call being somewhere between a rattle and a scream.
The cold seemed to less chilling than the sound still shaking their bones. These roads had long been abandoned – they were used by logging companies before that industry crashed sometime in the 70s – and stories had been passed down from worker to worker, family to family, about the odd things those laborers experienced in the deep woods. It was an odd mix of folk superstitions and acohol, no doubt, but this sound was enough to sober any man from his spins and intoxicate him instead with fear of the former.
They had been warned about this phenomonon before departing from the Sanrin Shrine, which stood at the bottom of the mountain and served as this trail’s gateway – into what?
The villagers allowed the shrine to return to nature over the years – and yet the steps and stone torii do not give in to rain, or snow, or even fallen branches from the mighty pines that surrounded it. Moss as slowly eaten away at the stone, and yet it is unable to hide its steps and walls. This resiliance led them to believe that deities awoken by the screeching of machinery and silent screams of ancient cedars (manifested, one said, in the weight one feels on their conscience as the giant trunk chaotically stumbles down the mountainside) refused to let the Sanrin Shrine return to nature.
The Shrine has since stood as a symbol of their hubris and shame, offerings coming from only those laborers now nearing the end of their life, perhaps seeking some atonement for sins unnamed.
…somewhere across the vast valley ahead of them, the sound echoed through the night – quieter than the first, but somehow more unnerving. One of them lit a cigarette, a futile attempt to silence his imagination. Its faint red glow the only light for miles – the dull shining of stars seemed at times to give into the darkness, a twinkle like a faint scream as it resisted falling completely into the night sky.
The campers spent a week in the village before departing, and this sound was second nature to its folk. When it fell upon the village, the men, women, and children would turn toward the mountain in near unison, waiting, guaging their fear. When it came back louder, the expressions frozen behind fear would melt through to their faces, expressions of…releif? It was only on silent nights, they observed, that villagers stayed in their homes, not letting a single light escape from the closed curtains of their humble homes – not letting a single expression betray their feelings. They had never seen a festival unpopulated by people until the night before their departure: the first scream echoed from the mountaintops, and they waited. The second sound was faint, more distant sounding – but it sent the village into a calculated panic.
The streets glowed red, that evening, and not a single sound dared to break the silence.
Reaching the end of his cigarette, the man crushed its bud beneath his foot. The sound of the gravel beneath his toes seemed terribly loud, and only then was he cognizant of the great silence that had fallen over the valley.
The air was still, and even the trees seemed to fear making a sound at even the slightest breeze, should one even come. The man looked up, and I could see bewilderment cross his face as one by one, all those faint, twinkling stars were sucked into the night sky, the weight of their silent pleas for help gripping his heart.
He could feel the malice of the mountain closing in around him, a thousand eyes unseen bearing a hatred as palpable as his own fear and awe. His knees gave way to an unknown force, and he fell to the ground. He felt his chest grow tight, and he quickly clapped his hands together in desperation, praying to something, anything, that might save him from this darkness. As he prayed, his ears filled with a dull hum, growing louder, and louder, and louder, until finally the pressure forced his eyes open – and he saw it.
The crushed bud of his cigarette was lay crushed in front of him. Releasing his hands, he slowly reached out. The humming grew louder still; his arm seemed to move less through air than through water. His chest was on fire. He fell forward, his hand grasping a handfull of gravel containing the cigarette bud. Before he could place it in his pocket, his world turned to black.
Movementreturned to the valley as a light breeze whistled through the pines. The darkness receded and the stars once again pushed through the night sky.
One star, the villagers noticed, shone brigther than the others.
It was the first time any of them had seen it.
(this did not take 60 seconds, and I got a liiiiiiittle carried away…)
The baby shook the rattle and grinned in delight. Drool ran down her chin and a gurgle came from her chubby little tummy. The other end of the snake was harmless since I’d cut off it’s head.
we were 4 hours into our trip. the sun was scorching, but we didn’t mind, if anything it was a welcome change after the brutal winter back home. Everything was perfect, that is until we heard the rattle.
Rat a tat tat. Rat a tat tat. Rattle. Tattle. When you’re rattled, do you tattle? Are supposed to deal or ask and by consequence tell on the person. Who do you tell when you’re rattled? Jesus, receive wisdom from above. Let him guide, then when you talk later you can give the testimony of Christ the overcomer.
The baby’s rattle rolls out of the bag one the young woman set it on the floor and a man tripped on it. The man fell face first into a plate of food on a table and then bounced off. He sued for damages and won sadly, which caused the young woman to go into bankruptcy.
his breath sounded like a rattle as he breathed. His blood was flowing from him in a manner that made it impossible for him to live any longer. As he rattled his last breathe out I let go of his hand.
I didn’t have a rattle when I was a baby. Although rattle could be referring to the feeling of being rattled. I typical feel rattled, it’s kind of just my personality.
If I have only 60 hours for doing something on internet I would download all episodes of my favorite movies and so much musics . However İf it’s going to happen I wouldn’t do some researchs about what ı want to learn because we have so much alternatives to learn them like books and encyclopedias.Also I would share pictures about things which was came interesting for me.
i think of a baby well duh because babies use rattles to keep them busy like some people use food to not be hungry why am i doing this i could be working out why are they letting me start the time again they just rattled my chain got me worked uo and now im stuck its onky 1 min calm down mispelling alot
I don’t understand how a woman who has tempted a married man gets rattled when he makes up with his wife. I just saw this scene play out in a movie.
the snake rattle as it was trying to capture the little boy that was running wild in the grass smelling the sweet lemon scent with it . And the boy was filled with joy and screaming because he found a butterfly and showed it to his mother who was laughing at seeing how beautiful her boy was.
Seth drove the old truck through the desert, deciding to ignore the rattle coming from beneath his seat. He kept looking into the rear-view mirror but no other vehicles followed him. He parked next to a rock outcrop and climbed to the summit. There was only sand, other rock outcrops and horizon. No dust clouds which would indicate that they were following him. He was safe.
When he returned to the trip and started it again, the engine revved for a moment before dying. Now Seth wondered, if he was really safe. The night was closing in and he had no warm clothing, nor extra food or water. This could be very bad.
Slight touch. Bones shaking, yet remain still as dying breath. Unnerved, they lay prickling on the outside of your skin. Creature staring into the bright lights, too taken in by the moment to make a move, to run away, to stand their ground. If you stand still, pretending the lights aren’t there, pretending they’re intending no hurt, do the lights pass through you, harmless? How long can one pretend the lights aren’t barreling down toward them, going through the motions of them not being there at all? If you stand still-if you don’t acknowledge- what you pretend not to feel pressing down on you- what you refuse to know won’t hurt you? Standing still; just beneath the skin, bones chink and clack and grind, singing a song of their own. A touch, barreling down, bright, soft, slipping underneath the skin, caressing bone, impact imminent, wide-eyed, taking a risk, looking up, thank god you’ve looked away.
Live to feel your marrow swim another day.
She heard a sound behind her but didn’t dare turn to look. She hugged her sweater tighter and pressed onwards through the forest, tripping over the underbrush and ducking against the twilight. Again, the sound came, closer than before. She thought about running, but convinced she would only fall to certain harm, she pressed onwards.
I heard the rattle, right outside my bedroom door. That was when I started hearing those mysterious rattles. Little did I know, that those rattles were warning me, telling me to be careful. But I just ignored them.
Escuchaba un traqueteo a lo lejos, en la oscuridad del pasillo. Temblaba. Sentado en el suelo, protegía la cabeza entre sus rodillas y con sus manos cubría su cara. Quizás pensara que así desaparecería y quien hubiera tras ese sonido constante dejaría de buscarle.
oh how you shook,
how you rattled.
my core couldn’t handle your way.
and how tables turned,
and all the walls burned,
when I had asked you to stay.
I would look my all social media apps than I will download lot’s of games because if there is not internet it would be so boring .I will also download lot’s of films and youtube videos to watch later.In last minutes I would surf in internet and when it’s gone I will be so sad and I will watch the films which I download before or I listen music.
The thoughts inside my head. The dishes when they are dirty. The feelings that bounce around inside like soft balls or old dogs barking because you can’t let them out. The words inside your mind that loll behind your tongue so you bite your teeth together.
The rattle of the wire basket affixed between the handlebars did nothing to calm her nerves as she peddled through the dark.
She is twelve years old the time it first happens – the utensils begin to vibrate in their drawers, the floorboards slamming together, the pots and pans clanging. Their state is hardly known for earthquakes, and yet – well, and yet.
People say I rattle a lot but im sorry I have a lot on my mind and can’t speak the words i feel. I can hear the demons rattle in my head when i can’t tell the difference between right and wrong.
The sobs wracking through her body as she falls to the ground, unable to hold herself up anymore. She fights against her daughters as they try to calm her, while trying not to break down themselves. She screams his name repeatedly in between sobs, not wanting to accept that he was gone. She sits there shaking, crying, cigarette in one hand, the other hand clenching and unclenching, as the news sinks in. As she fully realizes that he’s gone, a new wave of screams and cries wash over her, and the shrill cries filled with misery and heartache rattle me to my very core.
There goes the gang of rattlesnakes – rattle, rattle, rattle. You tell a lie to them and they will tattle, tattle, tattle. If you get caught for lying, don’t you prattle, prattle, prattle. Because the gang will listen to you: Rattle, rattle, rattle.
rattle
I hid inside while the door rattled. The knob twisted and turned as the latch struggled to break free, but it couldn’t. It’d be locked forever if that was what it took.
this is a snake or a noise almost a feeling. It can be related to an earthquake, and the earth rattles and so does your crockery.
There’s a rattle in his breath as his shoulders heave and his bloodshot eyes widen. The sound wakes the baby, and even from outside I can hear the music from her baby rattle. There’s a rattle in the grass, followed by a warning hiss, and a shard of ice drops through my chest.