firelight
the willow tree stood alone. its branches swayed and sighed in the wind. the tree wept. for itself, for its world, for the life it would never know. everything was about to change, and there was no stopping the darkness that lay ahead.
she wore a silk scarf every day. some days she wore blue, others red, always matching her coat to the very shade. she never told anyone what the scarf was for. she was not cold. it was not winter. it was quirky and unsettling at the same time.
it lay in the snow, blue and threadbare, abandoned in the snow the bordered the sidewalk. only one mitten today. she wondered why. were they trying to send a message? what could they possibly want with this, and how will it be turned against the town?
the watermelon rind sat on the counter, its sweet fruit long since stripped away by hungry hands and mouths. it loved the children who attacked their melons with such vigor. but love was not enough. one day, he would be forced to take his revenge.
the goblet was designed to resemble a human skull, but that didn't stop him from filling it with red wine and taking a delicate sip. the wine was sour, to match his mood. it was the only thing that was wrong, and the only thing that was right.
the stone was a deep, pure black. it pulled you in with its weight, a void held in the palm of your hand. whispers around you, inside your mind, like a secret passed between lovers. tempting, seducing, destroying you from the inside out.
the apron was old, the pristine white gone to dingy grey. it was worn in spots with a small tear on one end where it had been caught on a hook while she was cooking. but oh, how she had smiled that day.
"look over yonder," he says, as if he had stepped out of an old storybook. and maybe he had, because as she looks down the fields of golden wheat she sees something impossible. something incredible. something amazing, and not a little bit terrifying, was on its way.
she was leaning against the trunk of the great elm tree, resting in cool shade dappled with warm sunlight. she looked calm. too calm. she knew what was coming for her. she knew exactly how this would play out. and yet she closed her eyes, smiled, and let out a sound that almost sounded like contentment.
there was something special about this grove. the moonlight shone in threads, glinting silver off glossy leaves. these trees were old. there was history here. there was belonging. there was purpose. and sometimes, when the wrong person wandered in, there was cruelty and spite and the ghosts of time came out to play.
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writing since 2013 · 155 entries · 153 days shown up
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the words firelight reaches for
lightsoftairforeverrednighttreesmindshonecallingwhiteskylostbeautifulnowwind