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Organised by
RogerDodger
Word limit
400–750
Oceano Nox
Far above, a seagull chirps. Her gaze slowly averts from the creamy sand and reaches for the heavens, where the silent battle of dusk sets the zenith ablaze; listless crimson knights, effete stalwarts of the agonising sun, fight a desperate and hopeless sally against the implacable and ruthless legions of the overweening night; patches of carmine, occasionally blotted out as cheeky, unconcerned clouds scud to their own secret fate, clot near the horizon, in a derisory and nugatory attempt to resist the deadly invasion of the ultramarine juggernaut that has already devoured most of the vault, leaving behind its maws scores of glistening henchmen to watch over its tenebrous bowels.
A gentle rustle nudges her out of this breathtaking spectacle. A second later, she feels the cold, elusive touch of the water on her hoof, like the brief, delicate osculation of a protean lover. Instinctively, she shudders, then takes a step backwards; no matter how hard she tried, she could never get used to it: the maddening rolling of the waves; the pungent smell of iodine; the recreant, fawning sand, threatening to give way under her hooves; the ever-changing patterns of the shore, that shifting abomination born from the obscene copulation of earth and ocean, and reformed afresh every day.
Thoughtfully she turns her gaze towards the horizon. The boundless salty pond that extends before her eyes is all but placid tonight, its face hardly crimped by scurrying, ephemeral wrinkles whose cusps glisten of red and purple as they nip off the last effulgence of the crepuscular rays. But she knows it is only a pretence, a shameless charade to lull and entice the naive; the behemoth is simply catching its breath, mustering its wanton violence, awaiting the next opportunity to unleash its fury, to vent its primeval wrath, to claim its share of innocent lives and precious booty.
Her abhorrence is engraved, ensconced in her innermost self, almost written in her genes.
Written in her genes. How could she? Dang it, how could she? How could she resolve to sell her soul to it, to leave family and friends behind for the sake of that monstrous and vile tract of oily liquid? She grits her teeth as the memory of this accursed day springs again in her mind: that winsome beam as she lopes back home; her soft, but unexpectedly unflinching voice as she boldly declaims to her family, transfixed by incredulity, that she has found her way and decided to become a cabin filly, bored as she is of those puny, hackneyed, mundane acres of land she was reared in; her frail shape thumping away along the road, vanishing in the distance, without hesitation, without doubt, without even looking back.
Far above, a seagull chirps. She focuses back, slowly becoming aware of the gentle marine breeze that amorously fondles her carefully preened mane, as a wavelet shyly licks her hoof once more.
What did I do wrong? Why did I fail?
As these words resound in her mind, it suddenly happens. Out of nowhere blows a brutal gust of wind, snuffing out the dying echoes of the lingering twilight; the darkened water stiffens, sniffs the peevish gale, then rushes away, deserts the strand, recedes precipitately toward the horizon, leaving behind uncountable miles of drenched mud covered in seaweed and helpless fish.
But this is no rout, no panicked retreat. Because down in the depths, she feels it, the ocean is honing its pebbles, brooding its revenge. Out in the offing, the weak horizon collapses, engulfed in the vengeful wave the enraged enemy summoned: an ominous hurtling wall of prodigious height, that in a few moments will ransack the land in search of its quarry.
In search of her.
Already she can make out the distant rumble of the boulders as they roll and collide under the command of the titanic mass of liquid. Paralysed, she observes the approaching nemesis crowned in white scum. Or is it? No. Scum it is no more, but countless mouths howling in a shrill voice a single strident word that crashes into her ears, fills her brain, chokes her lungs, sucks her life out…
Guilt!
NOOOOO! she desperately shouts as the apocalypse whisks her away.
Far above, a seagull chirps. Sand hisses as a wavelet gambols. A sweet draught of fresh air sweeps over the lonely beach. In the sky, the waxing moon breathes a wan, chill nimbus, barely bright enough to light the three apples on her flank.
A gentle rustle nudges her out of this breathtaking spectacle. A second later, she feels the cold, elusive touch of the water on her hoof, like the brief, delicate osculation of a protean lover. Instinctively, she shudders, then takes a step backwards; no matter how hard she tried, she could never get used to it: the maddening rolling of the waves; the pungent smell of iodine; the recreant, fawning sand, threatening to give way under her hooves; the ever-changing patterns of the shore, that shifting abomination born from the obscene copulation of earth and ocean, and reformed afresh every day.
Thoughtfully she turns her gaze towards the horizon. The boundless salty pond that extends before her eyes is all but placid tonight, its face hardly crimped by scurrying, ephemeral wrinkles whose cusps glisten of red and purple as they nip off the last effulgence of the crepuscular rays. But she knows it is only a pretence, a shameless charade to lull and entice the naive; the behemoth is simply catching its breath, mustering its wanton violence, awaiting the next opportunity to unleash its fury, to vent its primeval wrath, to claim its share of innocent lives and precious booty.
Her abhorrence is engraved, ensconced in her innermost self, almost written in her genes.
Written in her genes. How could she? Dang it, how could she? How could she resolve to sell her soul to it, to leave family and friends behind for the sake of that monstrous and vile tract of oily liquid? She grits her teeth as the memory of this accursed day springs again in her mind: that winsome beam as she lopes back home; her soft, but unexpectedly unflinching voice as she boldly declaims to her family, transfixed by incredulity, that she has found her way and decided to become a cabin filly, bored as she is of those puny, hackneyed, mundane acres of land she was reared in; her frail shape thumping away along the road, vanishing in the distance, without hesitation, without doubt, without even looking back.
Far above, a seagull chirps. She focuses back, slowly becoming aware of the gentle marine breeze that amorously fondles her carefully preened mane, as a wavelet shyly licks her hoof once more.
What did I do wrong? Why did I fail?
As these words resound in her mind, it suddenly happens. Out of nowhere blows a brutal gust of wind, snuffing out the dying echoes of the lingering twilight; the darkened water stiffens, sniffs the peevish gale, then rushes away, deserts the strand, recedes precipitately toward the horizon, leaving behind uncountable miles of drenched mud covered in seaweed and helpless fish.
But this is no rout, no panicked retreat. Because down in the depths, she feels it, the ocean is honing its pebbles, brooding its revenge. Out in the offing, the weak horizon collapses, engulfed in the vengeful wave the enraged enemy summoned: an ominous hurtling wall of prodigious height, that in a few moments will ransack the land in search of its quarry.
In search of her.
Already she can make out the distant rumble of the boulders as they roll and collide under the command of the titanic mass of liquid. Paralysed, she observes the approaching nemesis crowned in white scum. Or is it? No. Scum it is no more, but countless mouths howling in a shrill voice a single strident word that crashes into her ears, fills her brain, chokes her lungs, sucks her life out…
Guilt!
NOOOOO! she desperately shouts as the apocalypse whisks her away.
Far above, a seagull chirps. Sand hisses as a wavelet gambols. A sweet draught of fresh air sweeps over the lonely beach. In the sky, the waxing moon breathes a wan, chill nimbus, barely bright enough to light the three apples on her flank.