Beauty, Song, and Death
Oct 6, 2020 15:14:07 GMT -6
Post by Alatariel on Oct 6, 2020 15:14:07 GMT -6
Working Title: Beauty, Song, and Death
Genre: It's meant to be grim, gritty, and fractured (per the submission request). So....horror-ish.
Description: Twisted Fairy Tale concept, this is the first 195 words of the opening to the story. Any and all thoughts welcome. Shred it, my lovelies.
A blood red moon crested over the treetops as the wail of a newborn babe tore through the night.
On the stone slab in the middle of a clearing, the mother crouched, holding the child with one hand, the other clutching the shoulder of a man standing beside the altar, skin waxy and gaunt. Cheeks hollow. Irises milky.
The woman pulled the babe to her chest and sat upon the cold rough slate. She wrapped the child in black wool.
“Close your eyes,” she whispered, touching the babe’s smooth brow with a thumb. The mother placed the swaddled newborn on the white ash soil beside the altar, gathered her stained garments, and pushed the man back toward the trees. Waiting. Watching.
Fingers, white as the soil, thrust upward through the frozen ground, bending and searching for the offering. One landed upon the wool. The forest went silent, even the birds obeyed the ancient rites.
Earth trembled as three greyish bulblike shapes emerged through crumbling dirt and splintered roots. Wicked faces, pinched with glee, ogled over the squirming babe. They were naked with thin reedy bodies, arms like twigs and eyes as large as mushroom caps.
Genre: It's meant to be grim, gritty, and fractured (per the submission request). So....horror-ish.
Description: Twisted Fairy Tale concept, this is the first 195 words of the opening to the story. Any and all thoughts welcome. Shred it, my lovelies.
A blood red moon crested over the treetops as the wail of a newborn babe tore through the night.
On the stone slab in the middle of a clearing, the mother crouched, holding the child with one hand, the other clutching the shoulder of a man standing beside the altar, skin waxy and gaunt. Cheeks hollow. Irises milky.
The woman pulled the babe to her chest and sat upon the cold rough slate. She wrapped the child in black wool.
“Close your eyes,” she whispered, touching the babe’s smooth brow with a thumb. The mother placed the swaddled newborn on the white ash soil beside the altar, gathered her stained garments, and pushed the man back toward the trees. Waiting. Watching.
Fingers, white as the soil, thrust upward through the frozen ground, bending and searching for the offering. One landed upon the wool. The forest went silent, even the birds obeyed the ancient rites.
Earth trembled as three greyish bulblike shapes emerged through crumbling dirt and splintered roots. Wicked faces, pinched with glee, ogled over the squirming babe. They were naked with thin reedy bodies, arms like twigs and eyes as large as mushroom caps.
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