Drabble Wednesday: Creepy Time
Today on Drabble Wednesday I serve up some creepy tales…
Puppet
The carved wooden face held a pitiful expression, its eyeless sockets staring, as it swung from its strings suspended from the ceiling of the puppeteer’s workroom. Its hand curled around the weathered head of another puppet, almost cradling the manmade cranium. The other puppet’s body lay smashed it pieces, twisted in the workshop vice.On the window sill a music box played, the tinny notes drifting across the gloom and dust of the shop. Under the sound of the music, a tiny voice whispered. “I’m sorry Poppa. I couldn’t save you. But I will try my best to avenge you.”
The Ferryman
The teal water carried the stillness of death, and the turbid air draped itself through the dingy sky. It was always thus; his surroundings never changed. His gaunt hand brushed across the olive wood of his pole before it dipped into the water, breaking the surface. The echo of this act sounded like thunder.A peace settled into his bones, as his boat moved gently towards the shore. He loved this time alone. He glimpsed a figure; there would be work tonight. His passenger boarded with a coin and he turned the boat back, sailing another soul to their fate.
The Circus on the Hill
On certain cimmerian nights, when the stars align, a circus comes to a long forgotten hill. Faint music heralds its arrival, the treble trill of the calliope, mixed with mellow fiddles. The tune is familiar, yet ancient, comforting, but daunting.Radiance follows, a warm amber glow that bathes the hill. It pulls the gaze, and you see the tents, all crimson stripes and buff canvas, flags and banners, and silhouettes milling all around. Then you hear laughter, the soft chime of bells, and the voices. Oh, those voices.Sweetly they beckon, call your name, but whatever you do, don’t listen.
Puppet
The carved wooden face held a pitiful expression, its eyeless sockets staring, as it swung from its strings suspended from the ceiling of the puppeteer’s workroom. Its hand curled around the weathered head of another puppet, almost cradling the manmade cranium. The other puppet’s body lay smashed it pieces, twisted in the workshop vice.On the window sill a music box played, the tinny notes drifting across the gloom and dust of the shop. Under the sound of the music, a tiny voice whispered. “I’m sorry Poppa. I couldn’t save you. But I will try my best to avenge you.”
The Ferryman
The teal water carried the stillness of death, and the turbid air draped itself through the dingy sky. It was always thus; his surroundings never changed. His gaunt hand brushed across the olive wood of his pole before it dipped into the water, breaking the surface. The echo of this act sounded like thunder.A peace settled into his bones, as his boat moved gently towards the shore. He loved this time alone. He glimpsed a figure; there would be work tonight. His passenger boarded with a coin and he turned the boat back, sailing another soul to their fate.
The Circus on the Hill
On certain cimmerian nights, when the stars align, a circus comes to a long forgotten hill. Faint music heralds its arrival, the treble trill of the calliope, mixed with mellow fiddles. The tune is familiar, yet ancient, comforting, but daunting.Radiance follows, a warm amber glow that bathes the hill. It pulls the gaze, and you see the tents, all crimson stripes and buff canvas, flags and banners, and silhouettes milling all around. Then you hear laughter, the soft chime of bells, and the voices. Oh, those voices.Sweetly they beckon, call your name, but whatever you do, don’t listen.
No comments have been added yet.
