Monday, February 29, 2016


The woods hold dark secrets.
Buried beneath the black grass.
Blood red leaves blanket the floor.
A green mist covers all.
Shades of green color the scene.
Gnarled tree limbs reach out to visitors.
Creaking and groaning as they bend in the wind.
Is that a figure in the distance?
Its eyes glow yellow in the green mist.
Is it friend or foe?
Wretched fingers encircle my neck.
The trees have taken us hostage.
The figure draws near.
It gives a cackle.
Not a good sign.
A pot is set up in the clearing.
Figures are mixing the concoction inside. 
I don’t want dinner.
And I definitely don’t want to be dinner.

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