Remember yesterday when I said it would be available really soon? I meant today.
A lone lamb grazed in the middle of a field just outside our walls. We watched her every now and then, stopping our mindless buzzing about our small town. She wandered through the grasses, eventually making her way towards our bubble. She pressed her nose against the shield designed to protect us from the outside world. Her pink flesh caused rainbow waves of light to roll along the translucent surface. She seemed to delight in this, hopping away before venturing back.
Some despaired. “Nothing can live out there.”
One group petitioned the village leaders to take on the responsibility of saving the lamb’s life. They refused, as our leaders are apt to do.
We gathered along the wall, watching the lamb come and go, expecting she would cease to appear at any moment.
The lamb persisted, staunchly ignoring the limits of our expectations.
Image from Pexel’s Photo Library (isn’t it cute?!)
I’m wandering in circles, like I have somewhere to be, but no one is waiting for me.
I’m just lost in this room, bouncing from window to window.
Photo from the Pexels photo library
As in, it’s a little chilly here …
I took this with my iPhone as opposed to my real camera. I think I would’ve gotten better background separation with my real camera.
For the vision impaired, the image shows a close up of a rose bush and it’s leaves with ice weighing them down.
Paper-thin, barely blocking any light, practically sandpaper.
Mildred was the premier treasure hunter in this realm. She commanded respect and awe. Her presence was a gift.
After all, a well placed treasure could make her rich. Of course, she would bestow a bit of that blessing onto anyone who helped her locate it.
But this … this was abysmal.
Mildred knew what the perfect specimen was and this was not it.
“I thought we were clear that you had a paper of the highest quality!” Mildred held the rolls high. “Look at this! This is not treasure! This is trash!”
At night, while the washing machine spins our soiled clothes, it moans like a haunted whale song. Notes echo through the dark rooms, tempting us to a depth we’ve never met before. Slipping away beneath the waves of sleep, the songs carry us until we’re resting on the backs of giants hidden at the bottom of the sea. Their skin, like velvet, holds us against the undulating weight of the water trying to carry us on.
“You aren’t meant to stay”
The giants drop us, sending our bodies down into the darkness. We fall forever, deeper and darker than we knew possible, before landing in beds of sand. Small creatures, keepers of this new darkness, prickle our fingers and toes. The sand curls into the folds of our skin and dances through our hair. The itching is infuriating but the darkness is heavy. It sits on our chests like a bully on the playground, pummeling our faces with meaty hands.
Suddenly, light, a small beam reflecting from a hook strung down by a fishing line. It roots in the darkness, searching for the target, before finding the fabric of my gown. More hooks descend, each carefully hooking our linen night clothes and pulling us away from the sand. We ascend, past the giants, towards the light. Our previous fears fall away with each grain of sand taken by the tide. Anxiously we await the chance to truly breathe.
Breaking the surface we are met with nothing but fishing boats rowing away.
Image from the Pexel’s photo library
Under the penumbra left by the Moon the priests got to work. The ceremony was far from categorical but each soul willingly submitted to being ripped from its body.
“For the gods!”
If only they knew.
The only thing waiting for them now was a group of bored reapers, a processing team, to shuffle them away. Then lines, lines eternal, as they stood waiting for paperwork to be completed.
One of the souls wandered towards them, bewildered by its new state.
“There should be gold, all of the gods glory …”
Kevin, the senior-most reaper and stick in the mud of the team, stepped forward with his clipboard and a smirk.
“Name? I’ll need you to follow me. We’ll start your processing. The current wait is about 2 millenia but it won’t be bad. We’ll play some music.”
Sometimes, after a good round of doom scrolling, I feel the need to lighten the load. It’s reasonable I think. I typically retreat to the mainstays of internet comedy, memes.
But meme’s can get dark too, a doom scrolling of a different type.
Yesterday a meme of Marie Antoinette’s head came up.
I smiled at first but then it was time for the execution to begin.
Maybe we’ll call this tales from the executioner.
It started as a ball of anticipation settling into my stomach.
Rolling and roiling, loud grumbles began to escape.
“I don’t feel good.”
My bandmates, bless them, pat my back and instructed me in deep breathing.
It wasn’t enough.
I walked reluctantly on stage, head down and anxiety churning in my throat.
Don’t look up.
The packed house stared back, each pair of eyes boring holes straight into me.
I couldn’t even start playing before the churning in my throat spilled over.
That’s why we have to move, preferably tonight when no one can see me run away.
Word Count: 100
For Friday Fictioneers (late, late, I’m late …)
PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson