hopeposting

It is dark as you walk along the forest road in the shadowed minutes between sunset and night. The uncut trees flanking it seem to crowd in, as if to dim the shine of what little light remains as it reflects back from the muddy path. The road twists in the evening woods, silent, too soon yet in the season for the lively symphony of life. Yet something, some near-silent presence pricks at your subconscious senses. Your place slows, a faint stream of breath leaving your mouth as you breathe faster, your heart rate climbing.

Like a sixth sense, you can feel the silent gaze of eyes, lingering on you from nearby as you come to a standstill. Your eyes dart, head turning, scanning the woods for movement or the unmistakable shine of the gaze of a hungry beast, but only darkness stares back at you. Still the sensation persists, intensifies. You shift your feet, slowly turning, fearful that sudden movement could trigger an attack.

There you see it, see them, with surprising clarity. You knew it was unwise to travel so late on this, of all days. You struggle to keep your composure. The taste of your holiday feast returns to you, but bitter and cold. The strange, horizontal pupils of a pack of beasts stare icily at you. You knew better than to travel so late, the one day of the year when their herds fracture, and the malevolent will of a long-dead string of slaughtered ancestors drives the beats to hunt their erstwhile masters.

Thoughts race incoherently through your mind, a jumbled lifetime of memories flooding back to you in what you know are your final moments. Your mind wants to scream, your body to flee, but as you stand frozen instead and you open your mouth you instead utter what may well be your final, ironic words - at least before an agonizing end at the teeth of a vindictive mob of enraged beasts. Your voice is low yet strangely sharp in the silent woods, little more than the ragged whisper, quiet as a trembling child.

"Where's the lamb sauce?"