Time had passed since Abigail heard the voices so maybe the coast was clear.
They had been muffled at first until the footsteps got closer, and then she could clearly hear the familiar, distinct southern drawl. Two men conversing, unaware of her presence as she lay silent and motionless in the undergrowth, not daring to breathe. She recognized the plantation foreman, Ned, immediately.
“As I said Caleb it ain’t gonna make an ounce of diff’rence. You can lock ‘em up at nightfall but if they want it bad enough, they’ll as sure as hell try and make a run for it”
“So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm?” Responded the younger man.
“Exactly” said Ned, “They just need direction” his voice trailing off as they moved away.
Abigail shuddered, remembering the whipping she had received the last time she escaped.
Opening my eyes I saw sunlight streaking through the blinds. My heart fell instantly with a thud as I realized I was in the guest room. Again.
The previous day had been fairly uneventful and we had chugged along with the rhythm of two married people who knew each other very well. My husband, needy and bad-tempered due to some physical demands, and me, the enabler. Most of the time it worked, but on some occasions, particularly when I was tired from giving all the extra attention, that’s when the fireworks fly.
He’d snapped an order at me. I appeased him and chose to be quiet while I tried to cope with the feelings welling up inside of me. What am I doing here? I am miserable but “I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility that existence has its own reason for being.”
In the still of a moonlit night he lay snug inside his sleeping bag. His mind wandering back to what had made him to come to this place. Was it to be at one with nature, or just an escape from the madness of the city. He had felt compelled to return to his favorite place in the forests of northern Michigan.
Here he could breathe and think clearly. He remembered camping here as a boy with his father who had told him this was a spiritual place. He didn’t quite understand what that meant but he knew enough to respect the land and the wildlife.
It was at that moment that he heard the wolves cry out. He remembered the sound and what his father had said.
“Don’t be scared son. In their dreams they sleep with the moon, not outside our tent”.
Merril is hosting Prosery Monday at D’Verse Poets and has prompted us with a line from a poem. We are to write a piece of flash fiction of no more than 144 words, excluding the title, and it must include the line below.
It was already dark as he closed the car door, thankful for the red moon to light his way down the road. How stupid to run out of gas, tonight of all nights. Angry with himself for not checking.
This was unfamiliar territory but he knew the road followed the river for miles. Coming to a crossroads he stopped momentarily. He felt a chill in the air and heard a moan like an autumn wind high in the lonesome treetops. The strange noise made him shiver. He was cold, having forgotten to bring a jacket, and the hair on the back of his neck was standing to attention. He moved on.
Feeling a presence, he halted turning quickly, but no one was there. Looking around cautiously he resumed his walk. It was then he felt the blow to his head and everything went black.
Lillian is hosting D’Verse Poets Pub tonigh
and the challenge is Prosery (not poetry)
A short story of exactly 144 words excluding
the title and we are to use one of the
following lines from Carl Sandburg’s
poemJazz Fantasia"Moan like an autumn wind high in thelonesome treetops" OR choose 2) "a redmoon rides on the humps of the lowriver hills".
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