The harvest

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The harvest

 
Butch looked at the vast corn fields spread out in front of him and his heart lifted. As far as the eye could see it was a sea of lush gold. A slight breeze was fanning the ears of the corn stalks and they seemed to beckon him.

 
The Sun had decided to call it a day and was preparing to retire .The sky blushed wearing the warm red and mellow orange coat. Time to pack up, thought Butch.

 
Whistling under his breath, he swung onto his truck and drove to his farm. This year, it was going to be a good harvest and he was pleased. He shed his work clothes, put them into the laundry basket and entered the shower. He was a man of meticulously clean habits.

 
Butch lived alone with only an occasional visitor. He neither entertained, nor attended any local social parties. The small community was used to his strange ways and left him to his devices. He was an excellent farmer and had the best livestock .The many awards adorning his living room was proof enough of that and the locals respected his need for privacy.

 
Dinner over, Butch decided to go check his most prized stock in the barn. The stack of gold in there brought a smile to his lips. He needed to add a few more this season. Picking up the scythe, the gloves and a small bag, he made for the darkening corn fields. As he walked through the corn stalks, they whispered to him,”Thirsty, thirsty, thirsty!”

 
Butch nodded and bent down to drag something from between the stalks. A golden haired young girl , bound and gagged, looking terrified, pleaded silently to be let loose. Butch lifted her to a sitting position and touched her hair reverently. He inhaled the fragrance of her glorious golden curls. It still smelled of the shampoo he had used last night. He took out a brush from his pocket and started combing her hair. All the while, he kept humming .The girl, unable to take it anymore had fainted.

 
This displeased Butch and he shook her like a rag doll, yanking at her hair, snarling at her lack of response. Then, releasing her, he fumbled in his bag and brought out a bottle of water, a pair of scissors and a jeweled mirror.

 
Sprinkling some water on the girl’s face, Butch revived her and then thrust the mirror into her tied hands. Gesturing her to look into the mirror, he expertly sheared off all her hair. As she watched in horror, he took out the scythe and with one sharp sweep chopped off her head. As the head rolled and blood pooled at the roots of the plants, he set to work, clearing the field of all evidence of his “ritualistic orgy”.

 
He had a lot to do before the Sun came up. He was happy to have this bounty of tonight’s harvest to add to his stock in the barn.

 

 

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The above story was written for Write on Edge,writing prompt,2014,week 12. The challenge was to write a piece of fiction or poetry in 500 words or less(mine is 500 words,including the title)based on either the photo above (I decided to pick the photo)or use the quote ,”Still round the corner there may wait, A new road or a secret gate.” by J. R. R. Tolkien ,or use both.For more details or to participate please click  on this http://writeonedge.com/2014/03/writing-prompt-2014-week-12/

 

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No reprieve

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No  reprieve

He looked at the small pile of stones and pebbles covering the little grave near the water. The wooden stake bore no epitaph but he knew his sweet Lily lay there. Their love was one of a kind and these insensitive fools had, interfered stopping their love from reaching its desirable culmination. But, he was going to outwit them-his Lily would be proud of him.

He hid behind the boulders and saw them leave after burying her.

 He raged and fumed. Did they think they could separate her from him? Since when had death been a deterrent? Rather, death had always been his partner in crime.

He had to wait till night fell. He needed the cloak of invisibility for his shenanigans. Not that waiting bothered him. He lit a cigarette and pulling his overcoat around him, lay back on a boulder.

The wind was rising with the incoming tide. The ocean was busy gathering her wayward waves, intent on teaching them a lesson in self-control but the restless waves playfully escaped her clutches, dashing against the rocks with gleeful abandon.

His stomach growled and his mind hungered. He was ravenous in more ways than one but satiation was not easy. He had to be careful. He dug his hands into the deep pockets of his overcoat and his fingers touched it. He shivered with pleasure.

A few hours passed .He crept towards a hollow in the rocks and took out the crowbar he had hidden there earlier. He moved towards the grave stealthily and set to work. The more he dug, the more his hunger grew. He was used to hard labour-the decade in prison had taught him that. It took him an hour to uncover the mound and soon he picked up 9 year old Lily’s body and placed it on the ground. Oh, how beautiful she looked.

His hands closed over the cold sharp steel nestling in his pocket and he fingered it lovingly. Gazing upon Lily’s face, he murmured, “How pale your lips look, my love-let me add some colour.” With that, he slashed at her wrists. Drops of blood oozed out and he licked at them and then bit down hard on Lily’s lips.

 He loved the ashen face, the unmoving body and the pale limbs. He remembered the softness of young flesh, the pleasure it gave him to plunge into such unresponsive young bodies and he felt his arousal raise its head. Images of slashed and mutilated bodies arose in his mind and he lost control.

He tore at the dead child’s clothes and then ravaged the dead body viciously, all the while stabbing the body and whispering terms of endearment interspersed with dirty talk.

The moon grew pale watching this and the ocean receded as far as possible, unable to bear witness to such depravity. Only the petrified stones, smeared with the blood and gore of the innocent, bore a silent testimony to the inhuman acts of a so called human....

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The above story was written for Write on Edge,writing prompt,2014,week 11. The challenge was to write a piece of fiction or poetry in 500 words or less(mine is 500 words,including the title)based on either the photo above (I decided to pick the photo)or use the quote by Robert Frost ,”I would have written of me on my stone: I had a lover’s quarrel with the world,” or use both.For more details or to participate please click  on this http://writeonedge.com/2014/03/writing-prompt-2014-week-11/

 

Walking away

                                                                     Image courtesy of Unsplash.

 

 

Walking away

Sophia looked at the retreating back of her lover and thought, how rigid his stance was-just like him.

Long after he had disappeared into the sandy horizon, she continued sitting there, looking at the Sunset over the dunes and reflected on love and life.

Their love life had been like these undulating dunes-ever changing and harsh on the travellers-him and her.

Her love for him was all encompassing, like the sea, carrying away all that was negative between them like flotsam. At times tidal waves of passion pulled at her heart and at others silent storms raged within. Just like the sea, her moods could change with deceptive ease but it was always he who caused those changes.

His love was beautiful but cold like the moon. No, she decided, it was more like the desert. She travelled through his heart, scorched and dying of thirst. Her life felt bleached of all colours and the oasis of love that she was looking for turned out to be only a mirage.

And finally, today after years of yearning and longing, it had all come to naught. He had walked away, unable to bear the burden of her love. What had he said? Oh, that he was not meant to be a family man- that love was not for him. The world beckoned and he had to leave.

She smiled ruefully, wiping at the tears that threatened to spill over. Well, she thought, time to tame the beast called love that had chained her heart for so many years- time she set herself free too.

She toyed with the sand, holding it in her fist and letting it fall free. She realized that while some grains fell off smoothly, a few still remained stuck to her fingers .She mused that painful memories were just like a fistful of sand –while one could let go of some easily, others would require more effort and time.

With that she smiled, stood up and started walking towards a new beginning…

 

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This was written for  Write on Edge using either the photo prompt above or the quote,”If you must speak ill of another, do not speak it, write it in the sand near the water’s edge.”~Napoleon Hill. I decided to go with the photo.Word count  337,including the title.For more details on the challenge,please click on this link-http://writeonedge.com/

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Writing Prompt: 2014, Week 6