Only a broken little heart……

Old lace.jpg

Regrettably, I am putting a hold on the short stories specific to the local area. Why? Well two reasons. Firstly I am not currently within the Shires or Victoria Plains, nor Moora, and neither Dandaragan. My present location is of little further relevance, yet, in a few weeks I will return.

Secondly, and possibly more importantly, I have run out of local yarns. Pretty simple really. That well appears to have dried up, so for the meantime, I will continue with another project I have labored over sporadically over the last year or so.

The four tales prior to this one are all related. The transformation of Annis, to Princess Annis, and lastly, the psychopathic Gentle Annis with the odd, grisly, power giving cloak are the precursor to that that you will find starting below, it is that I shall continue with over the next few weeks. So too, it is there in three or four weeks, Gentle Annis will return to the field, or the wood/forest as the case maybe. Hence, and without further preamble, I give you the epilogue to ‘Bast’; I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it.

N.

 

She is five years old.  

She is not enjoying herself.  

She had been immensely enjoying herself, but the concussive interruption of her parents has stolen that snippet of happiness and unbridled delight from her previously mundane existence.

Her name is ‘Bast’, and her five year old brain has no concept of the enormity of the situation, nor the danger she has inadvertently placed herself and her family in.

Semi concussion raises confusion in her wee elfin like head.  Pain is slowly beginning to register, and the tin taste of blood is beginning to make itself known. She is nauseous; stars and flashes of misplaced light dance before her magnificent jade coloured eyes.

Rolling unsteadily on to her left side, she see’s the filthy feet of her parents close together; their rough wooden shoes are shuffling in an eclectic dance of upset, pointing at one another all the while.  A hushed highly excited conversation is exploding above her, her parents close to frantic.

Bulrush and old straw are strewn haphazardly over the dirt floor beneath her tiny feet, she lifts her grubby left hand to the equally grubby side of her face, tentatively prodding an area of numbness with slender underfed fingers. Sticky warmth is found; “why” fills her head.  Her parents loved her didn’t they?

An unforeseen movement and her feet are dancing over the floor; her mother lifts her into a love filled embrace, holding her tightly, small head to her breast.

Father begins to yell and storm within the small round, conically roofed hut she calls home; arms flailing, he catches his ginger head in a low spot beneath the thatch, and is angered further.  

Then he calls her “demon”, and “witch”, and “devil”.  Her starved sobbing 19 year old mother continues to hold her ever so tight; she can smell the smoke of the cooking fire in her bright red hair.

Crude wooden footwear kicked off and Mother is sprinting through the rude stone sided entrance to their bothey, her home, ducking beneath the lintel in her passing. The scrap of semi-cured hide acting as a door barring the outer world from all within is flung aside; low grey skies, the smell of snow, and the bight of cold greet her.  Hens and geese explode in a cacophony of screeching and honking, the noise increasing with the thrashing of wings, birds of a feather escaping the onrush of her mother, drowning out  father’s raucous bellowing behind her. The sounds of the geese drop away as she passes, replaced with the feral noise of Father roaring, banging and crashing within the thatch covered bothey, utterly decimating it from inside out. She doesn’t understand why  Da is so rudely cursing her, and for what?

 

Can’t all little girls fly?

 

As is the routine, should you click upon the lesser above, something will come from within.

 

N.

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