Just anything, made in minutes? I can probably write a story in a couple minutes, maybe not a website or anything though...
Entry: Death - a short story
"Lo, the earth, I fear, is quivering my boy."
But as the boy turned to face the echoes of these words, what figure had existed, had vanished from the mortal realm. The wind whistles and the candle wick winds. Here, the ancient novelas tell, is when column's rose begins its subtle death. The boy, Emil, shivered in the forest's tomb, yearning only for one wormy candle. But darkness enveloped his environs, and his hope began to shrivel. Perched above the makeshift bed Emil now pray, a purring owl pondered this boy's plight. Taking flight, his frosty feathers furling a majestic canopy, the lowly owl rises above the darkness of the trees. Here, she glides above the silver moon, silhouetting a far off tower.
The tower looms above the starry skies, its faithful arms, ticking time. From within its bosom rings the bells of some profligate campanologist's lure. 'Tis ten o'clock. Methinks some soul finds comfort in the hour's song, smiling for the onset of a somber slumber. But to our young distressed, the boy Emil finds only fear in the haunting melody of that hour's tune. Wallowing amidst the toads, the boy begins to hear the hoof beats of a horse. Off in the distance, a cloaked phantom speeds upon his stallion, his black robes sailing in his wake. Emil cowers in pallid fear, as the horrific phantom approaches. The dark chestnut stallion hooves thunder through the brush, the fiery beast snorting and snarling like some anachronistic dragon.
Meeting the boy Emil, the phantom calms his horse. Stepping from the beast, the frosty forest's dust steams with wicked ephemeral smiles. Emil, overcome with clenching cold and frothing fear, trembles in the phantom's shadow. The phantom speaks... words not audible to any mortal being, but through the passages of some etheric sense. Emil twitches as he hears these words, his eyes white and mouth foaming. But even in this fitful fate, Emil begins to stand. His legs lifting him, not from his own strength, but by the power of some clenching enemy. Reaching out a bony hand, the phantom grips the boy, sealing a prison of no escape. Mounting the sentinel steed, the two ride off, vanishing in the thick of forest.
A soft hoot marks the owl's return. She glides gracefully to her aforementioned perch, a single candle clutched in her claws. But peering from the gurgling glow of that one candle, she finds no boy, where once had stood.