Winter Solstice Feast

When something goes bump in the middle of the longest day, it's best to be far away.

Winter Solstice Feast

Taffi watches the sun dip behind the blackthorn canopy; the sky is a slab
Of iron, bruised and unmoving--a single breath of wind whistles through the
Skeletal branches. A mournful whistle that does not rise. She feels the
Weight of the night stretching endlessly,

A shroud that swallows the whole forest. Her thoughts drift to a name
Unspoken only once a year; she thinks of the cave that yawns like a mouth,
Waiting, patient, hungry.

The night is longest now, a river of black that will not recede. The wind
Carries a scent of iron and bitter herbs, a promise of death. Scream shatters
The silence, distant yet close, the sound of teeth grinding.

The darkness seems to breathe, inhaling the forest, exhaling death,
A single figure steps from the shadows, claws glinting in the moonlight;
The night will close, the cave will open, the feast will begin. when the sun
Finally returns, the forest will be silent.

The ground is stained with loss.


Line Count: 15
Winter Solstice: Marks the shortest day/longest night, dates vary.