"Vision"


(submitted to Authonomy - FFF - October 21, 2011)


Clad in a white robe, she walked through a thick, misty fog. Her hand held another’s, but was it imagined?

The fog began to clear, and ahead stood a large formation of stones, a strangely serene place.

The sun was setting; the rays shone through them. Looking into the sky, the faint image of eyes appeared in the clouds … glaring.

Her hand, being gently squeezed, she turned to see who it was. There, dressed in a black robe, smiling … an unfamiliar face.

Led into the sanctuary, the sound of whispering voices echoed, but no one appeared.

Standing alone … is a large stone mass.

Together, they walk toward it and he lifts … a necklace. Placing it around her neck, the center stones a fiery red.

Still he is silent. Unnatural life flows through her as he turns away. He begins to speak; unknown, strange words. Suddenly, they are showered with blinding light. Turning, he whispers, “Do not be afraid, you are not alone.”

Cradling her face, her eyes search for answers … his search for acceptance. Without words, they share an eerie embrace. Dead silence … only heartbeats.

The air changes; the massive stones bleed. Pools lay at her feet; seeping into white. “Why? Is this real? Tell me, why have I come here?”

He smiles, vehemently, and raises bloody hands, beckoning, “My child, never forsake a gift freely given.”

From within his robe, he pulls a dagger. The sharp blade glistens. “Turn from me, my child, for I shall not relish in your agony.”

Turning, there are images … no, faces, on the blood-drenched stones. All cast asunder, an array of final moments. The whispers turn to screams, as the cold steel thrusts through.

Depraved laughter fills the putrid air. The setting sun now crimson, casts long shadows within the stone effigies.

White turned red; the protruding blade, now dulled and throbbing. Shaking, yet she turns, unafraid.

Bloody hands dripping, white stripped away, she zealously reached out for him … “For you … my lord!”

*

The crystal orb faded swiftly, filling with a scarlet fog, it was finished … “Will that be all, my sweet?” the wrinkled old madam inquired.


© 2011 Gretchen Steen