My main focus this year will be on writing. Yeah, yeah, I know I keep saying that, but I actually mean it this time... not that I didn't all the other times I said it. Hell, I just want to get words to paper, digitally speaking.
On that note, I will write a piece of flash fiction, off the top of my head. Let's say the topic is... a favorite little town of mine, fictionally speaking. One that I created, and one I'd like to explore with you this morning. It's called Long Lost.
Enjoy.
Sunday.
Everything begins later on Sunday. Stores don't open until after the last of the church bells ring, signaling an end to a mid morning mass. Breakfast isn't served until well into the rising of the sun. The streets seem to hold their breath as they wait for their usual inhabitants to emerge from their homes and take to the long stretches of asphalt leading to so many destinations. The day seems almost languid. Something to savor.
He knows.
The orchard, ever an area of teeming activity, seems to waken and stretch it's own nature-strewn arms, the air tingling with life and anticipation. Hunger, writhing up from the depths of the soil, a need for satiation (say she aye shion), for Sunday Bloody Sunday.
In the sleepy town of Long Lost, Sunday is the day of Sacrifice. Blood keeps the cows giving sweet, rich milk in abundance, the wheat grazing the sky in golden stalks, the fruits and vegetables plentiful and delicious. It keeps the dark that surrounds the town perpetually back, just a little. It isn't too much to ask... is it?
He doesn't require much these days. A cup of life, mixed with fat and sinew of some fresh, young thing. Whatever they can catch before the week's end; a bird with a broken wing, a stray dog out on the limits of the town, bones showing and no collar to announce an owner. Sometimes, if their luck holds, a wanderer, someone they can all feel is NOT MEANT TO BE. These occasions are becoming more and more infrequent, but each can recall in living memory a time when their Sunday was punctuated with screams coming from the tall apple trees, splashes of crimson found on the central pumpkins in that place which holds their magic. A time when there is enough to spare, and he will be kept in the orchard for longer than a week, full and fat on life.
Today, the children take their spoils for the week, wishing for such a stranger. All they have is one small cat, skinny and half alive, mewling pitifully in the bottom of the cage. The orbs that roll in it's emaciated skull were once a bright green, but now appear as dusty marbles, practically begging for the inevitable. They skip down the spiral path, sometimes catching the eyes of the boy or girl to the left or right and smiling apprehensively. While they know they do not need to be frightened, there is always the chance they will be dragged along with their prize.
It's only happened a handful of times.
Finally, they stand before him. The church bells toll deeply, resounding in the chest and heart of each of the six children present, reminding them to bow their heads and lower themselves to their knees. The cage is pushed to the edge of the path, to the base of the hill that climbs up the grassy slope to the very center of his domain. The candles, now black and white clumps of wax from the moon ceremonies of the past year, stop the cage. The cat inside mewls pathetically, as if resigned to it's fate as the children keep their heads down and wait.
They do not wait long.
There is a rustling on the slope, a dry branches sound, and the rest of the world seems to grow silent in his awesome presence. Carefully, moving with an unearthly grace for one so obstinately inflexible, he climbs down from his perch. His clothes are tatters, bits of straw sticking out of holes and patches here and there, glinting golden in the late morning sun. They can hear him draw uneven breaths, sounding much to them like someone walking on a barn floor, crunching hay beneath their feet. The floppy hat that covers his fiery eyes is worn, frayed, once black and now faded to a soft grey. Stretching to his full height casts a shadow across his worshipers and he can feel their shivers in the sudden cool air like sweet honey on his tongue.
Closer.
The children know not to raise their gaze. They wait, hardly daring to draw breath, as they hear the cage rattle, ever so slightly. The cat, very near the doors of death, hardly makes a sound as he removes it from its confines. It is not afraid as he inhales its final breath, feeling the old soul pass through him, revitalizing him just enough.
Enough for them to survive.
The children wait as Samhain climbs back onto his pole, set to guard the orchard for yet another week, satisfied that he is loved in this town and that they will continue to obey. The birds begin to sing as six small shadows shuffle back down the winding brick path through the thick vegetation, grateful that nobody would be telling the tale of their demise just yet.
As the church bells signal the beginning of prayer time to older and fouler things than any Christian god, Sam smiles. It's good to have one day of rest.
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