From the forgetfulness of my mind and the call of my
midnight muse, I bring you today’s Drabble Wednesday, scribbled in the wee
hours of last night…
Witching Hour
The night bird sings in the treetop, keeping time with the warble
of the wind. Above them, the moon glows, pale blue and full, lighting the way
of the coming traveller. She treads softly, her footsteps a bare whisper across
dirt and leaves as she wends her way through the forest. She smiles at the moon
and joins the night bird’s song with a faint humming. She has come to sing to
ghosts and spirits, to weave her spells and laugh with the joy of magic. She
belongs to this place, this time, the midnight of the pale blue moon.
Midnight in Paris
Watch the clouds drift in the indigo sky, playing hide and
seek with stars, and the coquette, silver moon. They beckon, those celestial beauties,
flashing their siren gaze earthward. They glint and twinkle starlight and
moonbeams to the city streets, and reflect their radiance off the steel beacon of
the Eiffel Tower.
This is Paris at night, in darkened splendour, alive with
the quiet, and the gentle sounds of evening. Hear the Seine ripple, against soft
laughter and the click of heels. Amidst it all we linger, strolling hand in
hand, midnight lovers waiting for the morning sun to rise.
Midnight Man
The crow caws once, then twice more. The air shivers, and
the grass bends at the edge of the woods. A cold, grey fog rolls in, thick as
wool, carrying a silhouette. A figure.
Can you see him now? The Midnight Man.
Tall and gangly, all angles and crisp bits, dressed in
black. He wears a long coat and a top hat. The crows gather round him in
flight, and one perches on his spindly arm.
Stay quiet. Don’t let him see you.
You mustn’t look into his eyes… they say his eyes are hollow. Inky voids sinking into death.
You mustn’t look into his eyes… they say his eyes are hollow. Inky voids sinking into death.
© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved
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