Prose – The Moon

English: Moon

It was the moon that made her fall. She had been running for an age, scratched and bloodied on her feet and arms with scalp and back slick with sweat. Her scarf was long lost and her hair, haphazard gold and dark tones, flowed behind her like a sail.
The trees were dark guards, the sky clear and sharp, as she charged down the small slope to the bottom of the valley. Across the other side, sheep hustled together banking up and down like flightless birds. Her feet splashed into the small stream, a stream she knew and had played in. It was small comfort. Her hands swayed and chest sank as she dug for air.
Her pursuer leapt across the stream in a graceful movement, moving ever closer.
Feet that knew nothing else ran, as small guttural sounds of fear escaped her. She had never so blindly panicked, feeling deaths presence surround her. She never should have left the house. Oh mama, she thought, forgive me.
It was then she looked up, beseeching to the heavens to save her and her eyes caught the moon, so large it could be plucked like an apple from a tree. In a moment, she fell and the familiar smell of animal faeces invaded her nostrils. Behind her, her follower eased towards her. She turned quickly and her mouth to scream, but her lungs could not deliver. Something crushed her chest, cracking her ribs. Blessed relief came when her throat was cut. It saved her from the savagery to come.

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