The Varcolac.
A Micro Short Story by: Sean McGovern
For Rebecca K. Z-Z.
Who is trying to kill me.
Come to me, sit now,
Under the shade and the sun.
Now – story ears.
The tale is old,
As water, as ashes,
Older even, now.
It is a tale of
Dust in throats and more,
Of darkness and ash.
Eyes to fire.
Embers remember it.
The Varcolac.
Say the name, kid.
Feel the sound – know it now:
The Varcolac.
Have you seen, kid?
Those born too early and
Those past on.
Have you heard?
The teeth don’t fix, yes.
And more – too many.
Fingers – bone.
Chilled flesh reaching
Shadow silent.
I have seen
Across the fields here
Moon light white.
There, I point.
Pale beyond pure snow
Claws of bone.
You look, follow,
To tree line beyond,
And wish to see it.
That is the hillock,
That, yon, is the sepluchur
There he lies still.
There, by time
His sleep un easy
And till he wakes
And finds us here
Upon another hill
And deafening
Now a call of
Thunder upon you
For now I am gone
Under the hillock
Where the old folk
Sit by the fire.
Raised voice
Sing so he may sleep
Winding through earth.
You will come
Here, sit by the fire
Sky bright
Sky darkens
Hands reach up
Silence over
Notes waver
As the claws hold
Fading light.
