They say he means death.
That seeing him ends your life. Or means that you’re going to die very, very soon. If you can hear his gallop, or can see his silhouette, it’s best if you get your affairs in order.
That’s what I’ve heard.
The tales they’ve always told about the black horse. The one that vanishes before dawn. He has no rider, and they say its because he’s only an omen. Only a warning.
He comes back later, they say.
Rider on his back.
And, guess who they say his rider is.
Guess who they say he belongs to.
Continue reading “Dark Horse”
It was on fire.
In an instant, the smoke alarm was protesting. Yelling at me from above. Judging, like a tiny, angry, petty god. Screeching before I could fix my mistake. Refusing me a chance to right my wrong.
Waking my mentor.
Disheveled, he burst through the door—his bluish white hair all askew, and his beard half-smushed from sleep—his eyes going wide when he saw the scene before him. When he saw the flames, and smoke, and chagrined look on my face.
“Damnit Beatrice, I told you: no summoning fire-sprits! And definitely not in the house!”
“Yes sir,” I intoned, saddened as he grabbed the fire extinguisher.
And, with one blast of continuous white fog, he put the fire out.
Dispelling the spirit. Continue reading “Ghost Fire”
“Look, I don’t know what all this is about, but, I promise you: I’m not a spirit of the forest. And I’m not a bear.”
The Wildman looked at me suspiciously. As if I were a fish on a like claiming to be a bird.
The physical imagery probably wasn’t that far off.
In that moment, I was dangling upside down by my ankle. Having gotten my foot caught in a pressure-trigger trap made of rope.
That was, actually, why the Wildman was so suspicious of me.
Continue reading “Forest Hand”