Evading the Dark Pursuer
He suggested, hinted at the lifeblood and ancestry of rival factions and hunters in eventide sun. He rode the stallion through desert beds of ancient gully; the water was scarce in the midst of the chase, nevertheless he had his canteen. He took a sip and stitched the bottle back onto his hip.
They were closer than three miles of dust, sand and dry desert wind. He moved on patting the black skinned horse on the neck, his hand came away slick with the animals perspiration. The vampires never rested even in noon day sun, they were a certain brand, a breed made for daylight hunts. Although sensitive to the suns heat and glowing rays they wore heavy, dark robes and shadowy face masks. They were a persistent breed allowing only twilight avatars to press forward through their territory, all others were fair game.
He rode and the sky became red in great slashes of color, red like the essence of life, the blood they eagerly sought. He looked back and distant ripples of mist, dust and three pinpoints in black secured their place on the backward horizon. Rare stories said escape, farewells and long breaths of respite were in the reverie of a distant illusion. They’d persist, unless, he thought they found prayer, found the god of their source. Squat boulders and an oasis of tumbleweed lay ahead, he’d rest there; perhaps he’d make his stand in hopes the vampires would fall to worship.
They derived their power from an ethereal enchantment and were in constant debt to the source of their blood lust. They were prone to long breaths of unconscious worship when confronted with the source of their power, during worship they were vulnerable, even helpless in trances oblivious. It was a chance at salvation, he climbed off of the stallion and surveyed the large stones, the sand and sage brush in the tiny clearing.
He didn’t have any choice, he pulled out the sharp blade he had fastened to his side. With a quick slash his palm bleed bright red droplets of blood. Moving to the front of the largest rock he drew a semicircle in blood. The design was a vampire symbol and sacred to the worship of their breed. It was his only hope.
The sun approached the horizon and spears of pointed light illuminated the boulders face. The vampire riders paused and got down from their horses. Their eyes shifted between each other and in unison they knelt down to pray.
The vampires had become the prey. They were oblivious as he severed their heads one by one. It had been a close call, he’d have to be on his guard now. There would be others and when they discovered the trio they’d be relentless.
He mounted his horse and headed North West toward the mountains and a chance at freedom.
The yearning decree of subconscious tangles filled by shadow and the advance of new beginnings tattooed the innocence of approaching twilight upon the bosom of her reflection. She squinted in asylums of wan sunshine and aloofness in the mystery of evergreen eyes and rare love. She loved the curative moment of passage, she pampered her sedate countenance in the stain of a dusty reflection. The mirror pleasured her, near crystal egress the window stole her from the mirrored glass and outlined her in sunlight silhouette.
She delicately named her homespun spirit an emotion of mercy arranged by her throbbing mood in vapory lady ghosts waiting for dark fall and the allure of anatomies in flux, the circle of evening ascension. She exhausted the day and justified the night with a prelude to symphonies, delirious by tempest repose.
A crisscross, an amber ageless sash in
Rose blush, in seasons of flittering bondage
Set free by spells and elusive magic charm.
A gilded overlay and an ancient owl
In obsessive caution and care, twofold psalm
And the flight of a lyric allusion to the chagrined
Gypsy moth and the clever mind of wolves, black cat
Whisker worlds that swathe the cradle of night
With small purpose and vast wild abandon.”
She sang and spoke in the reflective glass of her admiration and the coquette of her darkening heaven. The better curfew of creatures in likely shapes of voyage unto the night, she gathered her image and entered the shadows with a grin.
The Hymn of Wilford Larouse
Rugged and in sensual ramshackles, humble in nighttime betrothal, the western ray and the backwoods tumble of survival and fascinating revolt, gave Willford Larouse a moment, a thankful moment of reason and a suggestion of sanity.
He found the substance of soul and in naive command he sang his hymn in pain and blood, to his sweet Rio Madson Larouse. He uttered and sang in subtle prelude to the miracle of loves gained in losses of cold dire agony, in desert sands and cactus bloom the yielded life, bowing in barter for the ravages of a wild decree; he cradled his love alone in folded arms by the pallor of death, desolate and abandoned near the center of scorched earth and breaths of bedlam, he sang the hymn,
“Defy the silhouette of fury
And the shallows of life hurried,
Strange, rare and in difference,
In blessed sufferance of saints and the confessors
Of current hours and sun baked covenant,
Store the soul of care and
Embrace only if you dare
The charm of notions in forever and sweet revolt,
Return the bride in bloom
Return the mystery of this hold,
Return life to the cold flow of flesh and
In balance we shall rest, oh return my love
In the name of heaven above!”
Wilford advised the pallor of his sweet Rio with a kiss and the healing witness of a single tear as the spirits of evanescent delight drew close. The immigrant wanderings of chance celebrated his wife and gave her season the will to be. She inhaled and in delicate care touched the countenance of Wilford Larouse.
He found passion and a reason to be in the concern of angels and the miracle of life and boundless love.
“Thank god!” he sang to the angels above.
Ron is aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. He has written 101 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels: He has been submitting his work for the past two years. He is thrilled by acceptance. He is always looking for an audience. He has published 478 poems, 301 short stories and 86 pieces of art in over 144 periodicals, books and anthologies. He has been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts. Also He recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. He has been accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Thailand and India. He loves to write and offer an experience to the reader. He is a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association. His art is viewable on Facebook under firstname.lastname@example.org, you just click on profile and look under photo albums.
Website- Ronnie.Weebly.com (Swamplit)