Sunday's Whirligig

Posted Saturday October 15

It is dark. Very dark. I’m walking. I’m not dreaming. Walking. Along a track.

Look, a distant light. Flickering. It’s getting closer. But I’m standing still now.

So many people They are all around me. In black cloaks, carrying flaming torches. Faces hidden beneath hoods. They are mumbling. Do you hear them? I’m not dreaming. Prayers. Yes, murmuring prayers. They speak of re-birth and unholy desires.

See there, a fire. A skillet sits atop, steam swirling, drifting ’tween the branches of a tree. Someone dips bread into it and offers it up. Thick blood-red liquid drips to the ground.

And here. A bed of sticks. A man's body lies upon it. I’m not dreaming. I am not. It is naked, it’s white skin pure as porcelain. But the face is old. Creased. Weary. Blue eyes stare skyward, unblinking. Those eyes. My eyes? I’m not dreaming. My eyes.

They surround me. Mumbling, murmuring. One by one pulling back their hoods. My parents, my sisters, my friends. What are you doing here? I’m not dreaming. Tell me I’m not dreaming. They are throwing the torches onto the pyre...

Soon it will be morning. Yes. Soon this will be over. But I’m not dreaming. What’s happening. Where is everybody going? Come back. I feel dizzy. Everything is turning hazy. I'm in pain. I hurt. Where am I?

I'm not dreaming...

I'm not...

I'm not

I...

For Sunday's Whirligig where the given words are -  many, track, skyward, porcelain, flawed, birth, desire, ancestral, prayer, morning, bread and skillet

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