Revelation.

Creative writing.ie
Photo by Blake Cheek on Unsplash

His Eminence held the book in front of the assembled monks, priests, invited religious leaders from around the world.

‘In this tome handed down from millennia are the secrets to the world order. Who actually runs the world. Who decides what happens. It has remained a secret within these hallowed halls, for hundreds of years. But I have being called upon to divulge its contents to you. The assembled, invited leaders of your people’s, your followers.’

Their were murmurings of excitement within the assembled audience, in the darkened church hall. Adorned with religious statues of many creeds. The scent of incense at times overpowering. The low repetitive chanting of the unseen voices adding a sense of tension and suspense.

‘ I will also reveal to you today, what happens when we die. Where we go. The exact date the world will cease to be, and what will happen then

‘Hersey, this is nonsense. How can you possibly know. What give’s you the right to divulge this secret knowledge to the masses, that have being hidden from them for hundreds of years.’  The voice from the audience was loud and angry.’ He stood up, a large man, with an ornate sword hanging from his hip. A wild beard on his face. His angry, and thunderous.
‘Who are you to profligate such nonsense ?’ How dare you assume such an exalted position of power and knowledge. Who has called on you to divulge such powerful knowledge held within these scriptures.’

The eye’s of his Eminence meet those of the beast of a man daring to question his nobility and power. Never before had any questioned his authority. He looked to his aides at the high table to furnish him with information and knowledge as to the identify of this disrespectful entity, who had the temerity to question him.

‘Who are you, and where do you come from.’ he demanded.

‘Where I come from, and who I am, matter little. But I am hear to tell you that you have no right to divulge the secrets held within that tome, and if you do so, I will see you through with this sword that lies by my side.’

The assembled audience watched and listened quietly to the war of words between the two powerful men. The private guards that ensured His Eminence ultimate survival looked to him for guidance. Awaiting his order to attack, spears and scarberts at the ready.

His Eminence consider his choice of words carefully. His spoke slowly, powerfully and with much thought. His dark black sac cloth cape and regalia, adding to the perception of his power.

‘ I trust all of you specially invited, to never divulge the secrets buried within this tome. To ensure the continuation of the world order as it is, which has served us all so well. Are we not, as it stand the purveyors of the law, and wealth. Long may it continue’.

The assembled audience cheered loudly in response.

‘Silence’. Again the large unkempt man for the midst of the audience stood up.’There is no need to reveal the contents of those scripture’s you hold in your hand. For those of us that already know what they contain, that is enough. For those that do not know, that is how is it to be’.

‘I can promise that to any that divulge the contents of these scriptures outside of these hallowed halls. Will be cursed forever more to a life of suffering, destitution and suffering. Not only in this life, but in their many reincarnations to come. Not they alone, but the lives oft their families and loved ones will condemned to the same fate. Do you understand’, he asked loudly, slamming the tome down on the altar beside him. Many were startled by the sudden loud noise.

The eerie chanting continued in the darkened background, getting progressively louder and faster. Building toward’s a crescendo. His Eminence turned his back on the audience, and began to mumble in Latin. Quietly at first. Few recognized this version of Latin and Hebrew mixed together. The large velvet curtain behind the altar was pulled aside, revealing the symbol he worshiped. Gaps of disbelief were heard from the audience, then silence. He dropped to his knees, and recited the Latin and Hebrew words faster and louder, that he read from the parchment in his hand, over and over again. The unseen voices chanted ans matched his tempo and speed. His raised his arms in adoration and called on He who is pure evil to come this very moment into his life.
His body shock as the evil power entered his body, he heart turned black, his eye’s red. His voice took on a demonic tone, deep and rasping. His aides on the altar moved away in fear. The chanting of the unseen voices, overwhelming, repetitive, almost hypnotic. An atmosphere of extreme evil, menace, suffering, torture and death swirled around the hallowed hall. He turned around to face he who had the temerity to challenge him. His red eyes’ and scarred face, twisted in a grotesque snarling smile. With his imbued evil power, he pointed his hand at his enemy and unleashed a torrent of black putrid energy, that traveled at speed towards he who had dared to question. The audience scattered and ran, rightfully fearing for their lives.

The energy struck it’s recipient with such strong force, the large angry man with the wild beard was knocked to the ground. His Eminence on the altar waved his hand up and down, pointing in many different directions as the black putrid energy followed and obeyed his commands. Repetitively  stabbing and stomping on the fallen prey. The large fallen man’s eye’s were pecked out of his head. Some of the energy was forced into his mouth, and chest, strangling his organs and breathing. When the large man was no more, the evil energy, screamed cruelly and returned to the altar, and back into the body from whence it came. His Eminence collapsed on the altar, and black ravens flew overhead, silently watching. The eerie chanting stopped. Light began to fill the darkened chamber, and many of the hiding audience began to pray.

Written in response to a prompt seen here : https://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/

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Dancer.

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Photo by Craig Whitehead

Another few seconds to curtain call, and another performance. Another audience wowed, and stunned. The culture vultures lapping up the latest performance, and expecting nothing but the best, the most experimental, and innovative.

The lights went down, the audience hushed in silence and anticipation, the curtains opened, and it was on. His soul was bear. This was it. His choreography. His talent, and inspiration was on show, for his followers to either love or detest it. He took the first few steps, timidly and nervously. But he knew that action would conquer the anxiety, the unwarranted feeling of defeat. The abject terror, as he looked out among the stage lights. Feelings he was well familiar with. The audience beyond invisible to him. He brought his mind away from the fear and into his body, as he had being trained to do so in his homeland, over many years.
His memory returned to his stern, unsmiling teacher of long ago, who demanded nothing less than perfection from her students. He recalled how she had made them practice the same moves over and over. Slapping her walking cane hard onto the wooden floor, many times in frustration, at the National Academy. He could picture her now. The still slim, body of a dancer. The ever present cigarette dangling from her hands, as she elegantly moved her hands in tune to the music. Her swan like grace, as she walked around the dance area, not betraying her advanced years. They, as young children were more than fearful of her anger and temper. She was not satisfied, until it bordered on near perfection. He was glad of her tutelage now. His confidence in his ability as a dancer was high. It was how the new show would be received, which made him somewhat anxious. It was his choreography his music. A lot rested on its success.

Financial success. Public success or humiliation. He had no choice, he had to risk it. He knew without risk, there would be no chance of success. The assembled dance company waited in the wings, for there call onto the stage. They were ambivalent towards him, and his knew offering. Success or failure, it hardly mattered to them. They were just minnows, instruments in his creation. Discordant sounds emanated from the darkened orchestra pit. Some in the audience began to cough in disapproval. He focused his mind into his body, feeling the floor beneath his feet. Feeling air round his head as he leaped high on the stage, and spread his arms wide. He could of course have retired, and lived of the adulation and worldwide praise for his many previous innovative creations. But the lure of further acclaim, and worship was too enticing. To hard to forgo.  Two of the other dancers joined him on stage, as was there cue, as the music slowly moved from it slow quiet disjointed beginnings, rose in volume and melody raising to a small crescendo, and retreating back again to the disjointed, discordant quiet beginning.

The dancers on stage, gracefully, and elegantly glided around the stage, in movement to the music, following his lead. There expressive faces, displaying there intense joy and concentration to the task at hand. At one with the music, he was no longer aware of the audience, nor his fellow dancers. Lost in movement. Lost in his body. He danced joyfully from one corner of the stage, transversing it with ease, gracefully leaping high into the air, when called for. A young naked child entered the stage, and danced with slow engaging movements, as was called for.
The few cat calls started low, sporadically. The occasional theater program thrown on stage. The audience coughing, becoming distinctly louder. The disgruntled and disappointed and outraged audience, making there feelings known, as another naked child, slowly dancing in tune to music, joined the dancers on stage and followed his lead.

‘Outrageous’,
‘degenerite’
‘shame on you’,

The audience called aloud. But he was oblivious to them. He was lost in the creative movement of the dance. The audience looked to the royal box, where the Tsar looked on for a few more moments, before slapping his gloves hard on the mahogany balcony. His face contorted with rage. His eyes angry. He called for his adjutant, before leaving the the royal box with his wife. Many of the audience followed his lead. The cat calls and condemnation from the audience overpowering the music, as some of the outraged moved from there seats, and angrily rushed the stage.

In his joy and happiness , he danced as he had never danced before.

Written in response to a prompt seen here : https://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/

Justice.

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Photo by Evan Dennis on Unsplash.

This was torture. This was cruel. Tantalizing, and teasing. She’s in the forest. That was all the message said. They along with the detectives looking after them rushed to the scene, to be greeted by this.

They searched among the trees, with the cruel question marks. They searched by the lakeside, but to little avail. The birds in the trees above giving the forest a semblance of peacefulness. Again they wept. She could take no more, and turned to her husband for sustenance and support. But he too was hurting, and incapable of helping her.
The police officers who accompanied them, offered what physical and mental sustenance that they could, grateful that it was not their own child who had been taken. Intent of holding their own children tight, and loving them that bit more when they returned home later that evening.

He watched smiling from afar. This was revenge pure and simple. Some say revenge is a forlorn and pointless exercise to indulge in. But can they not understand the joy and pleasure it affords one. To watch the perpetrators of unsavory deeds and acts get whats due to them, it’s only right. He was undecided how long he would keep her in the cabin or if he would ever let her go. His main concern was which was the best way to inflict as much human pain and suffering onto her loving parents. To continue with this teasing and tantalizing method, raising their hopes and then dashing their hopes. Or perhaps to dispose of the child once and for all.

But he too was a reluctant victim of an unjust world. Of a corrupt society, and a fraudulent  legal system. Where favours and deals were conducted out of sight, among the well to do of the old boy network.
Where was the justice for his loss. Where was the care and compassion for his sadness. Why were the police so lackluster in their investigations. These and other questions ran through his mind. Enough justification for his actions.
He along with many others, would always remember her for her diligence and tenacity. Her absolute determination, to see right be done. She like many others could see the injustice of the International Co-operations refusing to play fair. Making billions of profits in sales, and paying little if any tax on it. Hiding their profits in tax havens, guided by highly paid knowledgeable financial professionals. While at the same time, these duplicitous co-operations claiming their innocence and honesty. Blatantly lying to the public, trying to deceive the masses.  Do they take us for fool’s. While normal people suffered, and struggled to pay the tax they were forced to pay, by their governments, or face possible imprisonment and large fines.

Outraged by such injustice she used the power’s of her office to work her way through these large deceitful co-operations, one by one, and with other’s intent on bringing them to justice, and making them pay financially. He remembered her, with her paper’s spread out over the kitchen table. The scent of her fragrance so alluring. With forthright indignation. He watched her stern face and body held tight with anger, as she explained to him what had being going on, and what she was going to do about it. Her frustration at her colleagues in the seats of power in the Government,  of her own country, and other countries. In an attempt to calm public outrage, the swiftly convened government committees  and public inquiries that quizzed the executives of the deceitful, dishonorable co-operations. Before the government ministers and officials, in front of the TV cameras, again the executives lied. Bewildered and disillusioned by politics and it’s dishonesty. Many of her colleagues had called for reparations and promised changes in the law. But what had it come to, nothing. Promises made but soon forgotten. With the public temporarily calmed, and philosophical about political ineptitude, once again big business had won out. She slammed the kitchen table hard, in frustration. Public services so badly in need of funds were to be denied once again. Overcrowded hospitals lacking equipment. Overworked Doctors, exhausted. Children playgroups disbanded. Psychological counselling services for the disturbed, curtailed. Had her government colleagues succumbed to the backhanded gifts of luxurious holidays, share options, mortgages quietly forgotten and much else besides. He watched and silently admired the power of her outrage, the disillusionment and unleashed anger that drove her. He loved her the more for it. Here was a woman, he would never leave. Where was the justice, she asked quietly. Who was to blame. She explained to him how they would be made to pay for it, in financial terms, and public humiliation. Justice for the people.

Neither realized just how powerful and to what lengths these business would go to. Hard to believe in this day and age. This was not a fast paced thriller movie. This was real life. In the quiet street, he watched as her hand was roughly torn away from his, and her lifeless sweet body was launched into the darkness of the wet night. He barely glimpsed  or noticed the speeding Mercedes, as he stood transfixed. Taken in by the sickening sounds of bones being crushed by the fast moving metal and glass weapon. Of human flesh and cartilage being ripped apart, never to be repaired. Watching in slow motion, the surreal, impossible event unfolding before him. His consciousness vacated his body, as he watched. A moment later, it returned to his physical body. His frame shook, as he wept quietly as he held her in his arms. She moaned gently in distress. Her breathing labored, and growing weaker with each inhalation. Her eyes turning grey, and her once luscious lips, a light bluish shade. Her precious blood covering her clear skin, and expensive clothing, she took such care with. His stomach swirled at the vision, and the rising contents of his intestines, were expunged from his body, with great force, onto the empty street. He longed to hold her gently, and make it not so. To chastise her, and tell her to let the corrupt and deceitful go. What does it matter. There would always be others of the same ilk. He cried aloud to God when her spirit left her body, but God did not answer.
He sat in austere courtroom. A place devoid of much emotion. Functional, that’s what it was. He watched the proceddings with disbelief and gripped the bench, to steady himself. As he watched and listebed, his face became red, and perspiring. His breathing rapid, and short. The veins in his arms, his neck, were held so tightly, to bursting point. His legs started to shake with the surge of adrenaline moving through his rigid body. He stood and repeatedly swore loudly at the judge, using language he did not realize he had at his disposal. The violence and venom in his loud raging voice, filled the courtroom, and suprized himself. The judge released the culprit with nothing more, than a meaningless and ineffectual slap on the wrist. An empty punishment. More evidence, if any was needed, of the hidden corruption, that affords freedom, to those in the know, with helpful connections.

The Judge and his family would be the first of the many who would feel the wrath of his revenge. He had much work to do.

Written in response to  photo prompt seen here: https://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/

Prostitute.

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Photo Credit : Khachik Simonian on Unsplash

Here I am a prostitute, what is it I must endure
I am that scarlet women, I am that filthy whore
Men who don’t care, middle class women who stare
Who worry and guess maybe its there husband whose taking off his vest
As he gropes and envelopes my breasts, as we lay together in the back of his filthy car
Where is my life going, is it going anywhere
Do you know what mate, I don’t even care
Another man, another woman, its all the same to me
I get paid, so they can do what they want to
Rape and plunder my soul, so what
Is this my life forever more, will it get better, ever
I’m dead inside, there ain’t nothing there
Happiness, grief, anger, my soul is empty chasm
Cant you see, but nobody cares
I am that scarlet woman, I am that filthy whore
My spirit a deep black hole.

 

 

 

 

The Beach.

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Photo Credit : https://unsplash.com/@venegas?photo=OhIfU2AczOg

She had threatened long enough, although no one had believed her. Just a call for attention. Nothing more, nothing less. they had decided. An old womans empty, and at times, humorous threats.
But obviously beneath the humour, there was hurt, and distress. No one had bothered to investigate. Everyone busy with their own lives. There careers, children, and business. Had someone actually taken the damn time to sit down with her, and sincerely ask her, what life was like for her. Had they show  more consideration and kindness, and maybe spent more time with an old lonely woman, life would have turned out differently. Perhaps many would have spent more time with her, aside from the one solidary visit a week, for the Sunday lunch. Nobody considering how the rest of the week was for her.
It was of course, too late now. The chance had disappeared. She lived for the weekends, and the once weekly visit from her children, and newly born grandchildren. Laughter and energy and happy voices once filled her household, just as it had been, when her own children were grown up. But there were always strains between her and her grown up, and now adult children. Did they really like each other , as people. Would they actually want to spend time in each other’s company, were they not related.

Some had taken sides, when the separation from her husband was first enacted, and then the divorce. Allegations and counter allegations flew between the two parties, and none of it pretty. Lies, distrust, and anger followed. Made up stories of abuse, and cruelty that may, or may not have had a grain of truth in them. Loyalty and kindness to her children, soon forgotten and dismissed by them, as they took the side of her husband.

The final straw for her, was the cessation of contact with her children, who were convinced by her husband, that she was the villain in all of this. That and the denial of access to her grandchildren, that she had helped care for, soon after they were born. No viable reasons given. All the love, kindness, and generosity she had shown them, and their Mother, her daughter, throughout the years. Amounted to nothing, it seemed. Kindness granted, soon forgotten.

It was that dull overcast November afternoon, that she headed to the isolated beach alone. With the tablets to hand, and a last small bottle of whiskey to encourage her bravery, she laid her reading glasses in the sand, and headed towards the ocean, and into the cold, uninviting waves. The mixture of the tablets and whiskey having the desired effect. As she stumbled and swayed, as she walked toward the sea. Her vision blurred slightly, and  feeling quiet light-headed. As a non swimmer she struggled and panicked at first, as the powerful waves, did with her as they wished. The whiskey and tablets helped to quell her rising fears, somewhat. The waves, and weight of her own clothing soon pulled her out and down, to the ocean bed, where she waited for God to take her.
In the cold, dark church, the priest stood at the lectern, gazing upon the congregation of mourners. Having conducted most of the formal ceremony, he could no longer hold himself back. Behind him the magnificent altar, towering upward. To him, they were nothing but hypocrites. He was well aware of the family history, having had been closely and connected to them for years. From births to marriages, to baptisms and confessions. He had heard and seen it all. They were here in this place of worship now to mourn her, with their crocodile tears, and false sadness.

The priest gripped both ends of the lectern tightly. His face thunder red, and perspiring. ‘What does it mean, to mourn someone when they have died. It means very little when you showed them little kindness or understanding when they were alive”. He spoke slowly and loudly. The anger and frustration plainly obvious in his tone. Her children shifted uncomfortably in their seats, as did her former husband. One or two loosening their shirts collars. The females fanning themselves with whatever was to hand. One or two members of her family gazed quietly at the floor.
‘I have very little time for hypocrites like you people, I want you to leave this church now. Get out of my sight. I am sick of the lot of you. Go, and may God have mercy on your black souls. Get out, go’, his voice rising to a crescendo. His booming voice reverberating throughout the silent church. The congregation left the church as directed, for the most part, with their heads held low. In the sacristy as the priest changed from the formal clothing of the funeral mass, he gazed out onto the cold uninviting waves of the ocean, under the dull grey November sky.

Written in response to a writing prompt seen here : http://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/

Gone Forever.

Photo credit : Hector Martinez / Unsplash.com

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She lit the candle and placed it by the shrine, but knew it was pointless. He was gone now, and would not be coming back. What she would give now for there silly pointless arguments, that they had so many times. How she at  times hated and despised him, and wished he was dead. What she would give now, to make it not so.
Did his classmates care ? hardly. He always stood apart from the others. There would be others just like him, who were  just that slightly way different. Those that were perceived to be a little strange. His love of poetry, his lack of female companionship, or interest in any females, at least not in that way. Those who stood apart from the rest of the group. The peace and tranquility in the home were now gone and shattered. Her Father had gone quiet and began to drink very heavily. She heard his cries of despair as she passed his room late at night. Her Mother, who was a cold, uptight woman, always found it hard to show much emotion, choose to ignore what had happened. For the most part she just played the piano incessantly, and busied herself with reading. Everyone dealing with the loss in their own ways.
Just one of the group came to the shrine. Dressed in the uniform of the culture. The black leather jacket, black trousers, and obligatory permanent snarl. She wanted to scream, and ask of him , why ? Did they really need to torture him mentally and psychologically every day. Why could they not have left him in peace and let him be. Why did they have to be that way, to be so cruel, why ?

She stared at him across the gravel courtyard of the shrine, willing him silently, to look at her. But he refused, and keep his head bowed low. Having enough of this nonsense she marched across the courtyard to confront him. The gravel crunching under her feet. Her heart pumping fast, her legs shaking somewhat, with the release of the chemical concoction in her body. She stopped, as she watched him kneel down and take some matches from his jacket, and light a candle, enshrined in its small glass container, and place it at the foot of the wall. She watched as he began to pray, and just for a brief moment his mask slipped, as he wiped away a solitary tear. She continued to watch him, as he lit a second candle, enshrined in it’s glass container, and placed it against the foot of the wall, and again say a brief prayer.

He stood up and put back on the mask and swagger of the uncaring youth, that he pretended to be. Had she known, she would of course have stopped him, and begged him not to do it. Not to waste another young life, by his own hand. A few weeks later , after reading about it in the local newspaper, she again returned to the shrine, and lit another candle, but this time for him.
===============================
He is gone now, he ain’t coming back
What I wish I said, but it’s no use now, cause he is dead
Would I have said I loved you more, just so that you’d know the score
Would I have argued less, rather than trying to get inside, and upset your head
What’s the point of large regret, for all those words left unsaid
What’s the point of tears to shed, cause now you’re dead, you ain’t no more

You know the big secret now, of what’s beyond the sky
It’s where were all headed, on that day we die
Why did you do it, take your life like that
Why could not be strong like a lion, in the face of such abuse
Can’t you see the pain were in, as you look down from above
I’m praying to Jeasus your sending us, tons and tons of love

Dear brother I love you lots, even though you’re far away
I ache for us to meet again, so I can have my say
Tell you that I love you, just the way you are
For in my mind you was ,and forever will be, that bright, everlasting star
I wish you could have been stronger, back here on planet earth
Why could you not have been a fighter, a man who stood his ground

Why could you not have tougher, not the weakling you were perceived to be
But then dear brother, you can of course only be, what you can be
Had you been different with your love of poetry, and all the rest
Maybe I would not have considered you one of the very best
Don’t you worry, kiddo I knew just what you were, my intuition put me straight on that
Not that it matters, it was just the way you were
But to me , you will always and forever be that bright, everlasting star.

Written in response to a photo prompt seen here : http://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/

The Message.

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Photo by Milos Tonchevski on Unsplash

It was the loneliness that drove her to join them. She never was one for joining groups, but had tired of being alone, always on her own. Since they had split. It was hard. When he was by her side, it was the two of them versus the world. But not now.
The world seemed a colder place, a less friendly place, and harder to deal with, when alone. No one to share with, no one to offer comfort, when life got hard, as it does for everyone. They offered comfort, companionship and a sense of belonging. She was told and understood there would be tests and initiation ceremonies, if she wanted to become one of them. But she was not expecting this. Silly teenage dares, she would welcome. Childish pranks, yes. Teasing would be boyfriends, okay. But these tests were becoming more and more bizarre and serious.

She had been driving for hours as instructed, and eventually pulled of the road to a secluded area, where she could at last open the tome and read the latest message in absolute privacy. She switched off the car engine. In the warm late evening sunshine, with only the sounds of the departing birds in the distance,she faced east, as per the ritual,and picked up a small twig. Drew a pentagram in the dry earth. She lit two black candles and placed them either side of the pentagram, and stood back. Reciting the mantra she had learned she let her voice vibrate from the depths of her body, through her throat and outward into the universe, sounding like some possessed evil spirit. She asked the Goddess to come into her life and bestow her wisdom and knowledge. She asked Lucifer, the most evil of all to come into her life and help her carry out what she was instructed to do.
Again she read the instructions, more carefully this time. She did not wish to dwell too deeply on the possible consequences. Best just do it, and let what will be, will be, she decided. Sitting in front of the pentagram she began to chant softly at first, feeling quiet inhibited. But she forced herself to chant the latin words written in the message louder and louder, and she stared at the pentagram and at the burning black candles, willing them to conjure up an image, a sense of a presence, a change in the atmosphere, a coldness perhaps. Anything to convince her, the ritual, the summoning of the evil spirits was working. But nothing. But she was told, at times during such rituals she may not feel or sense anything out of the ordinary. But to have faith that once these spirits were called, they were come to do her bidding. With the ritual complete, she put away the candles, and pushed some dry earth over the image of the pentagram.
She began her journey, guessing it would take her approx two hours to get their. Plenty of time to think, to back out, and change her mind. But then she thought of the consequences. Of the possibility of being expelled from the group, and back into an empty lonely lifestyle. The prospect of such did not appeal. Who wants to be all alone during the summer months when everyone is out and about enjoying themselves. Add to that the less than pleasant possibility of being haunted by the evil spirits she knew the group could send into her life, if they so desired.
Her phone jangled with an incoming message. She reached down, having an idea who it was from, and flipped on the screen. He just stood there staring, why did he not move. The black eyes glaring at her,unblinking. The head slightly bent stubbornly. The horns sharpened like spears. She looked up from the phone to the angry, contorted face in front of the car, and screamed. Her heart beating very fast. The butterflies in her stomach flying like crazy. Her legs began to shake uncontrollably , as the adrenaline surged through her body. She hit the brakes as hard as she could, but he just stood there, refusing to move. Why would he not move. His hooves digging at the earth in defiance. She struggled with the steering wheel, and managed to turn away, but too late. The horns broke through her side window. The sound of smashing glass. The impact throwing her across the front seats.

In the silence,she tasted the blood running from her mouth, and felt the cold hardness of the gear stick protruding slightly through her ribs. Looking through the windscreen, she watched a black raven standing on the car bonnet watching her. After a few moments, satisfied. The black raven flew into the night sky, and away……

Written in response to a photo prompt seen her ;  (http://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/