"Their laughter is rain pelting on distant leaves," Granny told her. "Running along the grooves of remote trees, sleek against brown-black bark. Always stay to the forest path, Amarelle. Don't stray."
Amarelle walks along the forest path, ignoring the persistent sounds of the forest. Light and shade.
The door to Granny's cottage is open. When she runs inside, the vivid tang of blood assaults her. She sees the tangled outlines, covered by her grandmother's quilt. She smells ephemeral flesh and the seeping of copper blood.
He sits at the foot of the bed, clutching his axe. "I did it for you, Amerelle," whispers the wood-cutter. "It's not murder; they're weren't human."
Amerelle walks slowly to the bed, tangles her hands in the blood stained coverlet. She pulls back their multi-patterned shroud.
When Amarelle turns back to the woodcutter, the rain drenches her, yet she's still thirsty. She steps towards him. A new thirst, soon to be quenched.
submitted at 10:09am
1 April 2011
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