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Rebekah Beddoes came closer to tears the more her situation worsened; bravely fighting them back she continued her weary trek down the isolated forest road. Her exhausted body gained no relief in the stifling heat, even the breeze playing with the long curls of her ruddy-chestnut coloured hair could do nothing to alleviate the high temperature. How she longed to leave the ominous cover of the forest behind, it seemed to trap the midsummer warmth and amplify it to an almost unbearable degree.
They burned my house, the corn crib and the horse stall. Men in uniforms came a few hours before sunset and put a torch to everything. By the time my wife Ayita (First to Dance), our son Adahy (Lives in the Woods) and I came up from the stream where we had been fishing for dinner, the whole place was ablaze.
The brown hue. The autumn gown. The sound of rustling underfoot as people move back and forth across my discarded clothes.
The unusual livestock killings began in earnest the first frost of 2016. Such was the way of life and death for the rural farming community of the North Georgia mountains, but near the Georgia and Tennessee border, the farmers had experienced nothing like the gluttony of carnage to come.
There was a peculiar nip in the cold air of that winter night in Chennai. The breeze that rose from nowhere danced through the open, grilled window. The twin pink colour, translucent, chiffon curtains separated, as if to make way for the breeze, and fell back in place afterwards. The Tanjore dancing woman on the study table began swaying her waist and neck languorously at the soft touch of the cool breeze. The sparkling plastic bead string curtains slowly oscillated as the breeze brushed past them and crossed the door into the drawing room. The wind chimes suddenly came to life and jingled softly, breaking the silence of the winter night.
Not all draggers want to eat your flesh. Some want revenge. This was what went through my head as I lay frozen in the corner of a cold storage area, my body halfway to dead and my breath like a broken concertina.
Getting old is not for the squeamish. When given time and the natural marinating that comes from watching hands of a clock crawl, minute by minute, as it stares unblinking from the nightstand, ghosts taunt your mind, bones rattle from the closets, and skeletons get restless. This morning the ghost from the old chest in the garage came calling.
At dusk, three, loud knocks at her front door scared the young, grief-stricken mother of four. Huddling around her in front of a solitary space heater, Ann's three children jumped, startling her even more. For a brief second, they shivered, fearing it was death itself that had come knocking.
Closing your eyes is as natural as day turning to night, right? Not for me it isn’t. There’s nothing natural about closing my yes anymore. I’ve always seen ghosts when I close my eyes, haunting me with their memories.
I listen to the cats outside our window, the ancient sounds tingling inside me, stirring memories mammalian but not yet human. My ears pound, waves crashing, blood gurgling. I envy them, my fellow fanged cousins, wishing to share their wordless grace.
The predator hunted. Poised atop pearl-black seas as flat as a field of asphalt, the Oshima drifted alone in the darkness, one hundred and sixty miles off the coast of Florida. From his vantage point, high above the ship’s helm, Haruto Nakamura watched as the slaughter continued across the deck below him.
11 results - showing 1 - 11