A Dark Cloud

A dark cloud hangs over the eastern shore of the Hudson. The dark cloud of winter wraps her frigid claws on the land. The claws of below zero temperatures grasp ever tighter as our hero moves north. North along the icy river. The river a frozen highway leading ever on, past Albany, past Lake George, to the barren waste they call Camp SonRise. Here, only here, his destiny at the youth retreat awaits him. The destiny that has been haunting him for years. The years that have been stretching his life ever onward, ever longer, without ceasing. A ceasing, like the gray horned graplaton, that never existed. It only a figment, a deranged illusion of our hero’s mind. A mind that, being so unable to think of a touching update, simply resolved to spilling meaningless phrases and unending sentences in a perpetual cycle of meandering drivel, only to finish in a fantastically frightening flourish of formulaic phraseology.

Steve