Hawthorn & Ash #73

Welcome to this week’s installment of many micro stories, ranging in length from 100 words to 500 words.

With each story we hope to deliver a little whimsy into the lives of our readers.

SACRIFICE

The wailing cries of the dead surround me, ice cold fingers groping, tearing at my dress, digging their grave dirt nails into my flesh. The God who watches with cold, golden eyes impassively at the ant colony we call Earth turns its hungry gaze upon me as I chant the words to bring about my apotheosis. I hold the ceremonial dagger in one hand and a book in another. Centuries ago, the worshippers of the Old Ones had bound it in human flesh, flayed from the still living sacrifices. They made ink from their blood and wrote the ancient words in an impossible tongue.

            Love requires sacrifice, and to feel her in my arms once more, I’d give the Old Ones the world itself. Her name is etched in the grave before me, the vibrant life attached to it reduced to cold, grey letters on dreary stone.

            “Hjila henaoba B’alant Nok!” I shout above the wailing din and wind so fast it tore away my breath. “K’nath’uhl, The Watcher in the Sky and Guardian of the Dead, I invoke you. Grant me your power so that I may restore and join the one I love. I give you my eyes in exchange.” Without hesitation, I stab it into one eye and then the other, screaming in agony as the world plunges into absolute darkness and silence. I fall backwards into the dead grass with a gasp, viscous fluid dripping from my now empty sockets. The groping hands of the dead no longer tear into me, and all I can hear is my own agonized breathing.

            Then I hear her voice, and it’s like the first birds of spring. “My bride?” It was her voice. Her lovely voice that I thought I’d never hear again, and my only regret for cutting out my eyes is that I couldn’t see her face.

            I wish I could see her, to once more gaze into those deep brown eyes, braid her raven hair, and trace the red cupid’s bow of her lips. “Is it really you?”

            “I think so,” she replies, and a hand appears on my face. It doesn’t feel like her hand. Where her hands are soft and warm, this is cold and slimy, like a raw steak. Something shifts under her skin before burrowing into mine. “I’ve wanted to sleep by your side for a long time. Come, we’ll rest in my bed.”

            A hand wraps around my foot and pulls before I can even think to struggle against it. And then I’m falling. I land on top of something hard and my ribs crunch, making every breath agony. “No,” I cry, struggling to get away from her unnaturally strong grip. She pulls me into her casket, and the smell of decay and formaldehyde fills my nose, making me cough. The top of the casket closes above us, and she holds me close as the sound of dirt patters from above.

If you enjoyed this story you can find it and more in the Hawthorn & Ash 2023 anthology.

AVAILABLE HERE!