A Kindling Soul

A tiny tentacle creeped out From behind. And grabbed on, held on, No slight. "Harmless", they thought. The monster smiled. And readied itself, For another strike. They floated ahead, The tentacle forgotten. Repressed, Restrained, Uselessly begotten. In a world golden, Red and untroubled. A sudden flash of green Unknown, on the surface bubbled. Desire, want, unprecedented. Ill, sick, unholy. Gushing through every vein Tentacles tightening, unduly. Securing its grip, Digging deep. Right till the soul The green essence seeps. Suffocating, smothering The tendrils, the fumes unbidden. Feeding on their own fears Both unknown, and those hidden. Slowly, engulfing their whole, No means of escape, no rationale. The green monster emerges, And all else fails.

The winds blew the blue curtains at his window into a messy, convoluted mess. Bruce shivered in his bed, and tossed on to the other side, facing away from the window. The blanket was thick, but it wasn’t helping him keep warm. ‘Count down from 100.’ It always worked. 100. 99. 98. 97. ‘What was that?’ Something flew near his window, but it was too dark to make anything out. Bruce pulled the blanket over his head and started counting again. 96. 95. 94. The whistling wind broke his concentration. He slowly moved the blankets to peek out of the blanket. The darkness was opaque. Bruce quivered a little. ‘Horrible vantage point. Need to know how to get a better one.’ Another movement. ‘Must not be fearful. Must check it out.’ The branches moved in a weird manner. The moonlight lit up a few of them, and their shadows hid all the others. Bruce climbed out of his bed and slipped into his coat. Cautiously, he walked to the window. The branches made queer shapes. The wind kept changing the br...