WEP/ISWG October Challenge - Horrible Harvest.

The challenge is back.  Huge thanks to the organisers and pariticipants.  A visit HERE will give access to a range of talented (so very talented) and different takes on the theme.  I do hope you will visit others and applaud them.

Just for a change (not) I am out of my comfort zone.  I can't watch horror (which these days includes the news).  I rarely read it.  Just the same there are undeniably some dark corners in my mind.

***

I watch over you, and will even give advice from time to time, but I am not an angel of any description.  Protecting you seems condescending to me.  Your life, your decisions, your outcomes... 

If you go down to the woods today, the sky will be blue and the air will be soft and perfumed with flowers but you must never step off the path. 

The trees are  green, and filled with bird song so long as you stay on the path.

It is  warm.  You kick off your shoes and walk on the lush green grass remembering not to stray from the path.

Time is irrelevant today.  You follow the path in the here and now, absorbing the sun, the song, the peace.  The sunshine on your face and arms is balm.  You walk taller and lighter with your head held high and wearing a contented smile.

The path ambles over an old stone bridge.  You laugh with the babbling brook below and delight in the silvery fish dancing in the crystal clear water.


As you leave the bridge and the brook  there are  fruit trees so very close to the path.

The trees are laden.  You don't recognise the fruit, but is golden, plump and obviously delectably ripe.  Your mouth waters.  You long to sink your teeth into that juicy perfection, but it isn't quite close enough and you must not leave the path.

You stretch greedy hands for it.  You jump for it.  You fail.  You jump and stretch again.  You look around and see no-one.  You look again.

You take a step.  And another.  A piece of that luscious fruit falls into your hands. 

It smells incredible.  It is velvety, sun-warmed  and heavy in your hands.    You take a bite, and it explodes in your mouth.  The juice spatters your hands and your face.  It fills your mouth and coats your tongue.
The taste and the smell are beyond incredible.

Your mouth is filled with the taste of undercooked offal coated in caramel, of resentment, of dashed dreams, guilt and bitter regrets.  Sticky, nasty putrefaction.

Your nose is swamped with odours of  sick beds in closed rooms, unemptied bins, stale tobacco and alcohol, and a rich marinade of cloying, clashing perfumes.

You retch, you helplessly vomit, you weep, you  moan.   Your hands and mouth burn as you stagger back to the path.

You run, back over the bridge where the brook laughs at you. 

And still you run.  Birds swoop ominously overhead as the skies darken.  That velvety grass is replaced with gravel and glass.  Your feet bleed. 

You reach the safety of home, rush inside and slam the door.  You strip off your blood and vomit stained clothing.  You stand in the shower frantically scrubbing till long after the water has run  cold.  Your hands and face are blistered and oozing. 

You scrub your hands, your face, your mouth, teeth and tongue till they bleed.  You scrub some more.  Rot and decay still fill your mouth and nostrils.

I told you not to leave the path.   

Full Critique Acceptable.

512 words.

We have a house guest and my time on the computer will be limited for the next few days so I am unlikely to be as quick to read other entries as usual.  Just the same I WILL get there, and am looking forward to it.