He took another heavy drag on his cigarette, feeling the warm tentacles of smoke flood his lungs – the rain hammered down, tapping out a frantic morse code against the umbrella he held gingerly over his head. The night thickened as he exhaled, blue-grey ghosts escaping his lungs, coiling, serpentine. The city loomed around him, a vast cathedral. Red-brick walls, shrouded as they leant inward, drunken above the alley.
Rumbling echoes growled, bouncing between the tenements.
He was surrounded.
He ignored her as she crept nearer – he was trained from birth to ignore their kind, to ignore the seed of truth told in fairy tales.
To ignore the monsters lurking in the darkness.
The glowing cherry flared again in the darkness.
He sent the cigarette arcing through the night, a fleeting firefly, hissing into the pond that grew, creeping closer into his garden.
The possums laughed, husky and terrifying in their brutal suddenness, laughing from the eaves, laughing at the night.
Lightning cracked the clouds, brilliant, blinding.
She stood beside him, her obsidian blade drawn.
The Queen of the Wild Hunt took her bounty.
Written for Sketch 37 by Terry Whidborne – I just find this image so captivating…I’ve got at least two more stories for this sketch!
I also used one of this week’s BeKindRewrite prompts Trained From Birth.