The Writer’s Tale

When a writer writes
He tells two tales
One he writes to entertain
One he writes for other’s sake

Yet a second tale he tells
Not by his hand does he say
But by the words he chooses
Does he tell this tale

Where one he writes by hand
And is for the masses to read
The other is read
By those who can see

For the second tale is written
As a window to the writer’s mind
To see the heart and soul of him
Who pens the words

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Monday Stories: Blue Light Hall

In a town much like any other, an old building once stood alone.

Once brightly painted and full of life, it now lies abandoned and empty. Doors and windows are boarded. Crude words are painted on its sides while trash lies in its gutters and sunbaked parking lot. Faded letters proclaim the building to be the Blue Light Hall.  A trashed decorated chain fence blocks the lot.

Through the few windows, one can see a wide room broken by narrow pillars. Dust and left over trash clutter the floor. A short stage in the corner while an empty bar dominates the far side.

Most pass by without notice. Others wonder when they will tear it down. Only the old will recall the hall in its prime.

Children and college students will enter its dusty hall on a dare or out of boredom. They find nothing more interesting than a dead rat or an old broken bottle.

But turn to the homeless and the teens who wander late at night. Talk to the explorer or the lonely and they will tell you a different tale.

They will tell that late at night, the broken lights will shine once more. The smell of fresh popcorn will fill the air. Music can be heard once more, issuing from speakers long turned to dust. Yet the strangest thing that can be heard, is the laughter and sight of people. Cars will appear as if issuing from the fences blocking the road. People will pass through closed doors and

People will pass through closed doors and lean through boarded windows. They wear the dancing clothes of the roaring twenties.

They will tell you three things without fail. The sight and sound and smell will vanish at first morning light. Those who go to see if it is real or not will vanish within those walls.

And if you risk coming a little close, you can see amongst the crowd of dancers people who do not belong. Where the dancers wear bright, glimmering clothes, they wear clothes from another time. Where the dancers wear bright smiles and seem at peace, the strangers wear terrified looks.

When four teens disappeared one late night the townspeople grew afraid. The order was given and the building was torn down. A slab of cement now covers where the building and parking lot stood. The chain linked fence has been replaced by cinder blocks.

If you go back now during the day not much can be seen. Modern buildings line two of the sides while a parking garage stands on the other. Graffiti mars the sun bleach walls. The lot stands empty and unused.

But if you return at night, you will see the Blue Light Hall once again in all its glory. The sounds of laughter and the smell of popcorn wafting on the air. Yet four teens can be seen standing by the road as if they waiting.