Wednesday, 22 July 2015

Drabble Wednesday: Midnight

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.

© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved 

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