The moon hangs too bright, too close. She tries to turn away, but she cannot move. It presses down on her, unblinking, a pale, silver gaze that pierces through her closed eyes. Around her, the world sleeps, yet the sound of it—the slow, deliberate breaths of the night-swells and echoes, amplified by the stillness.
The sound of wide-awake night owls echo into the silence of the world aslumber; every movement sharp, deafening; ripping through the tranquility like a tear through existence.
She wills her toes to move, just a wiggle, a flicker, anything.
Nothing.
The thought crawls upwards through her calves, creeping into her thighs, each inch heavier, more futile.
Her body is a traitor. She curses mutely her hands, lying frozen beside her, stubborn and unyielding, deaf to her silent commands.
The sky above offers no refuge.
The stars seem dull, muted, as if the clouds skating across the face of the moon have stolen their light. As if the night has swallowed hope whole. Her lips part slightly, a phantom pain throbbing in them, a reminder-if nothing else-that she is still here, still tethered to this world, even if it offers no comfort.
Distant voices float toward her, hushed and half-formed, too familiar to be entirely foreign, just beyond reach. They are close now, circling. A prayer drifts through her mind, wordless and ancient, directed toward something unseen, something faceless. She pleads for mercy from gods long abandoned.
A light appears, far off but unmistakable. It wavers in the dark, erratic, like a firefly lost in a midnight storm. She tries to focus, to pin her hopes on this wavering beacon. Closer it comes, zigzagging like a maddened star. Her heart, slow and heavy, quickens in rhythm.
Shadowy figures emerge, one after the other. Cloaked heads dipping into view, their dark hoods obscuring their faces, a wave of darkness spilling across her vision. She wants to call out, to beg for help, but her voice, like her body, betrays her. She can only watch. Their voices rumble low through the empty skies, its almost a comfort, lulling her anxiety into a sardonic slumber; her heart expands at the realisation that salvation approaches.
A figure leans in, closer than the others, until all she can see are its eyes. Her breaths quicken matching the beats of her hasty heart. Its eyes are hollow and distant, framed by the mask of frayed fabric. They seem to look through her, past her. She pleads, wordlessly, hoping her terror will speak where here lips cannot.
A hand brushes her hair, softly - almost tender. A shushing sound follows, low and gentle, soothing - yet it feels wrong - like a lullaby sung by a wolf. A silent tear slides down the side of her face. The figure catches it, cradles it as if it is precious and brings it to its mouth. The thick, pink flicker of a tongue laps at it, savouring the salt.
He moans loudly, a moan that is echoed by the other surrounding faceless entities.
He begins to speak, she does not know the language, it is guttural and coarse, ugliness in the form of words scraping across the air like broken glass. The congregation surrounding her respond to his bellows with short throaty responses, she sees their hands moving across her limbs as if weighing them up, greedily grabbing and pinching the skin as though she is a thing to be claimed. The air thickens with their strange words, their chanting building into a rhythm that vibrates through the stone beneath her.
A box is presented at the furthest end of the stone, a white rabbit emerges - picked up by its ears, squirming in the hands that hold it. Its small body contorts in futile panic; it is passed from hand to hand, each shadowed figure inspecting it before bringing it closer to her.
What the fuck is going on? She wants to scream. To demand an answer to this madness, but her words remain caged.
For a moment, she is eye to eye with it, her fear reflected in its tiny pink eyes. The chanting becomes louder, urgent gleaming under the moon’s glowing accusations. In one swift motion, it slices through the soft fur, its blood spilling a scarlet arc. The life in its eyes fades, yet the horror of it remains in hers.
Inside she is screaming, her gaze fixed upon the rabbit’s lifeless body. It is passed back down the line, a kiss upon its head from each recipient before being removed from her line of sight.
The blood slips and drips, pooling on her stomach; and from the shadows a snake emerges, its scales a verdant green. It coils around her ankle, its tongue flickering, sampling the taste of violence. It slithers slowly toward the blood, bathing in the worm sticky pool.
The chant slows, she hears the sound of feet pounding into the ground, a lethargic march leading them towards the end of a ritual. The snake lifts its head inquisitively, almost regally, before its vertical pupils narrow in on hazel confusion. It rises higher, higher, until it looms over her, milky fangs bared.
For a moment, time seems to cease. The snake strikes, sinking deep into her neck, venom mingling with blood.
She feels nothing as her thoughts drift, weightless, succumbing to the dark. There is no pain, no fear - just the slow release of oblivion. The world fades, dissolves into the night, lost to the eternal sleep of unknowing.
Some illustrated pieces -
My last piece for
September challenge!“Wild sings the bird of the heart in the forests of our lives.”
Mary Oliver
Knowing others is intelligence;
knowing yourself is true wisdom.
Mastering others is strength;
mastering yourself is true power.
Lao Tzu - Tao Te Ching
The truth is not always beautiful, nor beautiful words the truth.
Lao Tzu - Tao Te Ching
And the sunsets of Autumn – are they not gorgeous beyond description? More so than the brightest dreams of poetry?.
Charles Lanman
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night's decay
Ushers in a drearier day.
Emily Brontë
Now the leaves are falling fast,
Nurse's flowers will not last;
Nurses to the graves are gone,
And the prams go rolling on.
Whispering neighbours, left and right,
Pluck us from the real delight;
And the active hands must freeze
Lonely on the separate knees.
Dead in hundreds at the back
Follow wooden in our track,
Arms raised stiffly to reprove
In false attitudes of love.
Starving through the leafless wood
Trolls run scolding for their food;
And the nightingale is dumb,
And the angel will not come.
Cold, impossible, ahead
Lifts the mountain's lovely head
Whose white waterfall could bless
Travellers in their last distress.
W.H. Auden
Go from me, summer friends, and tarry not:
I am no summer friend, but wintry cold,
A silly sheep benighted from the fold,
A sluggard with a thorn-choked garden plot.
Take counsel, sever from my lot your lot,
Dwell in your pleasant places, hoard your gold;
Lest you with me should shiver on the wold,
Athirst and hungering on a barren spot.
For I have hedged me with a thorny hedge,
I live alone, I look to die alone:
Yet sometimes, when a wind sighs through the sedge,
Ghosts of my buried years, and friends come back,
My heart goes sighing after swallows flown
On sometime summer’s unreturning track.
Christina Rossetti
I do so enjoy producing these Sunday pieces! It has been a while since I wrote any fiction - please let me know if you enjoyed it!
Thank you for reading - for your support - your likes, comments and shares! I appreciate every last one of you!
Love and light 🍁🧡🍁
Ah, these are so beautiful!!