The Death of Baphomet

Fleas jumped off of the tangled hair, copulated in mid-air and settled back amid the black tendrils.

I stared in disgusted fascination, my nostrils having made peace with the assaulting stench.

My mind was drawn inward, savouring the festering feeling of satisfaction acting like balm against the long-aching depths in the pit of my stomach.

I watched the gaping hole betwixt its eyes, the hole I had just made, rendering its horns useless; unable now to ram at me; its dead legs unable to stalk me; its glassy eyes, emptied of the evil spirit that has haunted me for so long.

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Salvation in Silver

roiling-cloud-1

Copyright – Kelly Sands

After days of ceaseless chanting, all the magi have accomplished is this oppressive canopy of rumbling clouds.

Below us, dark legions spread across the valley.

On our side, one hundred remain of the thousand that saw the first dawn of battle.

The chanting paused.

A child now stands among the quarreling magi.  Unbidden, he steps forward and lifts a hand over the abyss.

Then, through the clouds, a shimmer.

A silver dragon swoops low among black flags and the spreading tidal roar of terror.

They flee; disperse like an ant colony disturbed.

The dragon soars and disappears and, with it, the child.

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Hollow

Copyright -Mary Shipman

Copyright -Mary Shipman

All I remember from the day the humans left is an all-encompassing, bright flash. They were gone before the night was dawn.

My three little ones are my world now, and the humans’ house is our home.  The most recent danger is a lone wolf that roams the woods that have spilled over the front yard.  While I hunt, I hide my kittens in the holes up in the wall.   Wolves don’t jump that high.

And yet, I return to a quiet house. A claw marks the length of the wall; too high for a wolf; deep enough for a bear. My babies are gone.

For Friday Fictioneers. Football fever has caught me by the throat this season.  I write this as I watch Spain v. Chile.  Tell me, is football an inspiring muse?

The Rendezvous

I met him once on my way to work.  He was as expected; tall and thin, his figure bent by age, leaning on a scythe.   His face was hidden by the black cloak, greening with age.

‘You can’t have come for me!’ I said.  It wasn’t a question.

‘And why not?’ His was.

‘Because I’m too young.  I still have much to do!’

‘Like what?’

I stopped and thought for a while.  ‘Well, I’m on my way to work.  Can’t just leave without notice.  How would my boss cope?’

He paused and didn’t speak for a long while.

‘Have it your way then.  I’ll take you later.’

**

He was waiting for me again on my way from work to home.

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