Friday, March 25, 2011

What colour is a horse's neigh?

The horses in the stable neighed spiritedly, as the wind picked up outside. The sound rippled, black and white, down old Jimmy's spine, like a finger running through the octaves of a piano; from High C to low.

Friday, March 18, 2011


Entered for the Sunday Scribblings prompt - Woods

Green eyes glint in the darkness, betraying the malevolence obscured and watching deep within the shadows of the leafy undergrowth. An evil presence lurks, blending into the landscape; stealing into the scene with a creeping slipperiness, like a menacing oil slick spreading its vile intent atop a benign ocean.

An oblivious emerald parrot fans its jewel-coloured feathers on a low branch, while other avian varieties, sensing the depraved, spontaneously flee, screeching for others to follow suit and escape to higher ground, but the warning is unheeded by the emerald parrot .

All is too quiet in the forest now; an uneasy hush has spread throughout the lush woodlands; only the low tinkling of leaves and haunting creak of damp wood rubbing against damp wood can be heard.

The emerald parrot is lulled into a false sense of serenity as it is gently swayed in the branches; natures conspiracy. Even the orchestrating frogs inhabiting the reedy pond nearby, appear to be caught, mid-croak, holding their breaths and waiting in anticipation for the regrettable; the inevitable.

Glimmering eyes hold fast to the object of its desire. A supple body lowers, crouching in readiness to strike. Glowing green eyes fixate; ebony pupils dilate; a heart within an agitated chest, hastens; muscles tense and adrenaline courses through plump veins.

Without warning, a lithe, auburn body springs from the dark conspiring brush. A solitary screech rings out as a single emerald feather drifts upon the invisible crest of a final breath.

Falling. Spinning. Drifting.

In final flight, the feather gently comes to rest. It lies motionless upon the damp forest floor; hidden and blending with the moist mosses, Baby Tears and unfurling tendril of ferns.

For a moment all is quiet, but for the sound of quick loping footsteps padding stealthily back into the cover of dark shrubs and shielding leaves. A Lark calls from a distant treetop. It is a question. It is a query as to whether the deed is yet done. Somewhere through the foliage, desperate grunts and tearing ensure, and the sounds of beastly gorging soon follow.

The pond frogs breathe out. Their simultaneous sound is a symphony of disquiet, functioning to obscure that unbearable partnership of sound: consumer and the consumed.