Post by Belouch on Mar 21, 2020 18:46:41 GMT 1
The Return of a Father
Isalora helped her Mother uproot muddy carrots from the vegetable garden outside their little home in the Tablelands of Agonia. She held the orange roots up by the stem in the mid morning light and scraped the mud off before laying them neatly in a basket.
“Papa! You’re home!” Isalora shrieked
She dropped the half muddied carrot and started running towards the house.
“Isalora!” Mother scolded, but the child had already gone.
“Well?” Mother chided when Isalora returned.
“I swear I saw him walking around the back of the house, but when I got there no one was there.” Isalora said in a forlorn exhale.
Mother shook her head.
“I’m telling the truth. It was his hat and his clothes. I know it was. The footprints in the dirt seemed… smaller… thinner… not like”. Mother interrupted the girl and said, “Silly little girl, when will you grow up.”
Noon came bringing with it the full might of the sun, which forced the pair into the cool shade of their home. At the table Isalora enjoyed a small cup of grape juice. The front door burst open. The dark silhouette of a man stood in the doorway. Isalora stepped off her seat carefully. The brightness of the sun impaired her vision and she used an arm to shield her eyes.
“Papa, is that you?” Isalora asked cautiously.
The figure did not move, did not speak, silence filled the room. His shadow stretched across the floorboards and stopped at Isalora’s feet. She noticed only the sound of her own breath.
When finally the figure moved the room filled with a clicking noise similar to the sound of cracking fingers and knuckles. He reached across his body and unsheathed a sword. The blade cast a long shadow that waved over Isalora’s face.
Mother called for Isalora from the bedroom.
“Papa is here to see us.” She replied.
After a pause Mother began, louder than before, to admonish her child, “You really must stop this Isalora, I’ve had quite enough of it. You were there, you know he will never come back, you must stop this.”
“But he is back, wearing his hat and a big smile.” Isalora protested.
“Right! That is it!” Mother entered the living area just in time to watch the sword thrust through Isalora’s chest. She could do nothing but scream as Isalora’s body slipped off the blade and slouched onto the floor face first. The figure stepped into the house as Mother crumpled to the floor howling. The figure clicked, cracked and clopped with an irregular gait across the room towards Mother. Her arms were folded into the crease of her stomach; she lifted her head and spoke.
“How? We buried you…”
The figure said nothing, only dropped his sword between her head and shoulders. As Mothers head rolled along the floorboards the figure broke the window by jumping through to join a group of marching skeletons.
Isalora helped her Mother uproot muddy carrots from the vegetable garden outside their little home in the Tablelands of Agonia. She held the orange roots up by the stem in the mid morning light and scraped the mud off before laying them neatly in a basket.
“Papa! You’re home!” Isalora shrieked
She dropped the half muddied carrot and started running towards the house.
“Isalora!” Mother scolded, but the child had already gone.
“Well?” Mother chided when Isalora returned.
“I swear I saw him walking around the back of the house, but when I got there no one was there.” Isalora said in a forlorn exhale.
Mother shook her head.
“I’m telling the truth. It was his hat and his clothes. I know it was. The footprints in the dirt seemed… smaller… thinner… not like”. Mother interrupted the girl and said, “Silly little girl, when will you grow up.”
Noon came bringing with it the full might of the sun, which forced the pair into the cool shade of their home. At the table Isalora enjoyed a small cup of grape juice. The front door burst open. The dark silhouette of a man stood in the doorway. Isalora stepped off her seat carefully. The brightness of the sun impaired her vision and she used an arm to shield her eyes.
“Papa, is that you?” Isalora asked cautiously.
The figure did not move, did not speak, silence filled the room. His shadow stretched across the floorboards and stopped at Isalora’s feet. She noticed only the sound of her own breath.
When finally the figure moved the room filled with a clicking noise similar to the sound of cracking fingers and knuckles. He reached across his body and unsheathed a sword. The blade cast a long shadow that waved over Isalora’s face.
Mother called for Isalora from the bedroom.
“Papa is here to see us.” She replied.
After a pause Mother began, louder than before, to admonish her child, “You really must stop this Isalora, I’ve had quite enough of it. You were there, you know he will never come back, you must stop this.”
“But he is back, wearing his hat and a big smile.” Isalora protested.
“Right! That is it!” Mother entered the living area just in time to watch the sword thrust through Isalora’s chest. She could do nothing but scream as Isalora’s body slipped off the blade and slouched onto the floor face first. The figure stepped into the house as Mother crumpled to the floor howling. The figure clicked, cracked and clopped with an irregular gait across the room towards Mother. Her arms were folded into the crease of her stomach; she lifted her head and spoke.
“How? We buried you…”
The figure said nothing, only dropped his sword between her head and shoulders. As Mothers head rolled along the floorboards the figure broke the window by jumping through to join a group of marching skeletons.