Calypso's Cry

January 21, 2012
By , Denver, CO
PROLOGUE: The moon was full. The air was murky and swathed in mist and eerie echos. The cloaked figure padded lightly through shadows. The robe obscuring his monstrous, scarred, body. Not a sound reached him as he slid forward. He reached the door. Without hesitation he grasped the handle and quietly, slowly, pushed. The door swung open without a sound. And there it lay. Unguarded, exactly where it was supposed to be. Shining in the moonlight seeping through the small window. Perfect. Exactly as he had anticipated.
The man flew silently across the small room to the body draped in silk. Kneeling beside the darkened form he reached to the whitened hands lit by the moonlight glinting off this unworthy person’s infamous gift. Not for long. He smiled. Grasping the warm hands, he lightly pried relaxed fingers apart, away from his treasure. For a moment he admired the moonlight illuminating the helpless mortal, the rays lighting on the silver sliver resting gently upon the unprotesting person’s chest. Then he lifted the precious item to the black cloak enveloping him and slid it beneath his dark attire.
Whisking back to the entrance he slipped through the crack in the doorway. Closing the door behind him, his eyes raked the darkness for the place. The place only she would find. Now he ran. He could hear the wind billowing the cloak behind him. He felt his adrenaline pumping through his veins. He felt alive. Against the midnight sky, a line, visible only because its inky blackness was deeper than the sky behind it, towered into the night. Up through the stars, slicing through the precise center of the moon high above him. Towards that, he ran. As he neared the pillar he slowed, stopping directly in front of it. He turned slightly and gazed instead upon an equally impressive structure, of chest height. Elegantly crafted, ornate, and perfected in every respect he felt no pity for what he must do to it. Scarring this simple piece of art would cause pain eventually, of course, but after his work was finished, no one would think twice about this innocent piece in the grand scheme of destruction.
Reaching his hand beneath his cloak, he silently searched. His scarred finger touched the cold steel. His hand creeped lovingly to the silken handle. The monster of a man withdrew from beneath his billowing robe, the vile, lustrous blade.

Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback