Drabble Wednesday: Empty Streets

Today on Drabble Wednesday, the darkness closes in and the wind sweeps down desolate paths...

Come Due

Midnight whispers names down the deserted lanes, and softly knocks at the barred doors and shuttered windows. It conspires with the night wind and the moon to shiver along cracks and the sheen of surfaces, to squirm its way past barriers.

While those of flesh and bone huddle in fear behind thin walls and glass.

They mutter useless prayers into the darkness, a vain attempt to ward the poor wretched souls on Midnight’s tongue. They know by morning dawn, Midnight will claim those it names.

For bargains made in the witching hour must be honoured and tribute must be paid.

~*~

Echo on the Cobblestones

Black velvet sky, a celestial awning of space and stars, yawns above the quiet streets of a small, sleepy town. An ordinary town, nine to five, good citizens abed in these darkened hours. Yet, there are no stragglers, no ill-intent prowlers, no night owls haunting the alleys or roadways. All is still as a dead man’s breath, and cold as a frozen tomb.

Save for an echoing sound most peculiar.

Every evening it can be heard, a curious tap, tap, tapping. Like the beat of footsteps on long forgotten cobblestones, of someone strolling down an avenue lost to the ages...

~*~

The Road Taken

There’s a winding road I know, very near, but far away. The old folk tell you don’t travel down Tarkington Road, bad things happen in the wisps of fog and the twilight rain. That you won’t come home again if you meet the Man in Black.

It’s a bit ramshackle, this thoroughfare. Once a mining road, or maybe a logging trail; no one’s sure anymore. The air feels heavy, the light plays tricks on your eyes. Things shift in the mist, and noises—not quite screams—echo from down the way.

And of course, there’s me.

The Man in Black.

© A. F. Stewart 2016 All Rights Reserved

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