Pulling my hand from the pit I felt the dominant breath of evil, that lurked deep below. Hot wind burned my face, whipped my peppered hair, and murdered tears before they could roll. Darkness flew up and grabbed me like a thick blanket of melted rubber. My flesh became devoured with invisible teeth and an unquenchable thirst drank the powdery remains of my crushed bones.
. . .
Copyright © 2018 Zachary W. Gilbert
Pine overcoat, stained with tears
Death stole you from me.
…
Your words will soon dry.
Dusty Earth drinks, last wet breath.
Tears carry last, “love you.”
…
Part of me, with you.
My loss, indeed. Heart’s pieces gone.
Love, now has a limp.
…
Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert
A giant wooden circle spins. Old drawings of children riding on animals and laughing, cover the center hexagonal pillar. The roof is like an ornate hat for a spinning round house. Wood shaped into framed swirls and borders. The paint is faded. This ride has been on the Earth for some time. An old group of people occupy it. The music plays, yet the looks of blind joy, knowing sadness, and silent fatigue hangs on the face of the riders. A voice booms over their heads, the music fades, the lights dim and the ride stops. They make a line, some are wailing, and trying to hold on for one more time around, but when the music stops, everyone must leave. They begin walking slowly our of sight. The exit gate is closed as new group populates the circle. Riders sit on plastic animals impaled with vertical poles. The frozen faced beasts of burden drift up and down, limited to their evolution, or their design perhaps. The moment is brief. The ride starts. The ride ends. As the gate closes behind the old riders, children run to the animals, laughing and telling their own stories of how it all works.
…
Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert
My body is broken. Arrows flew like a blackened swarm of rain, as if 1,000 dragon’s teeth were pulled, ground sharp, and fixed to a shaft that would fly swift. The sudden bite of a well placed arrow is like being punched by a knife. The first hit my shoulder. It struck so hard it broke through my armor. Bits of my own metal when deep into my muscle and bone along with that sharp arrow. I saw the hot read of my own blood spray the splintered wood of my impalement. I tried to grab it, to break it off, to keep fighting along side the other soldiers, but it was excruciating. My lungs found the courage to yell, “For the king!” but the next wave of arrows found us all. One found my head. The sound of the bone in the skull cracking, is a unique sound, especially when heard from inside the head. With a bright flash behind my eyes I was dead. The yelling of soldiers, the warmth of the sun, the feel of dirt and mud on my skin, was all gone in an instant. I never felt the impact of my body hitting the ground.
Dying perhaps, is best explained like falling asleep, and never waking up. There I was, dreaming, or existing in the afterlife. Surrounding were a blur, there was just a stone bench, in a park. I sat down, and noticed a young boy playing with a puppy. He looked at me and the dog ran off.
“Where are your parents?”
“Not here yet, My name is Sammy!”
“Pleased to meet you Sammy.”
“Your heads got blood.”
“Oh yeah, I was a soldier in a great war, the King asked me to take the front lines, and win the battle, but I was killed. Took an arrow right in the head.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No, it doesn’t I was proud to die, because I was fighting for my country,my King, and my beautiful wife Bathsheba…”
“Wow, that’s my Momma’s name, and my dad was a King too!”
Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert
Who is it, that consumes the living? Darkness, that invisible specter that surrounds all things living, can never satisfy his insatiable appetite. Hearts flutter and die, the blood within dries. Flesh looses it warmth, and surrenders silently to the cold. Darkness, has once again left fang holes where he has drank the goblet of life out of another. His red eyes glow from empty sockets. The swirl of gray smoke makes his eyebrows. In his throat an unquenchable fire burns orange like an angry volcano. In the blackest part of night he gathers up the seeds of the lost, and plants them in his vineyard. Their names are etched in crown of stone. The tread of existence, will soon fray, and unravel, swallowed by an inescapable, Darkness.
Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert
Zachary W Gilbert, Author 