Morbid Wonderland Part One
By: Fox
A gentle voice from the wind, a whisper for the nocturnal. Calling...calling. A
gaze falls upon the outside world, middle earth, Daring the child to play. A feather, pure
as a child of an unlived life, carried upon the backs of faerie wings. The virgin feather
captured the curiosity of innocence.
The innocent, with her sunken eyes, emotionless, staring, her hand limply
reaching out, grasping for the feather, for the soft touch. Her arm falling limply to her
side as the ermine softness draws too far from her outstretched fingers.
One leg over the windowsill, her delicate gown billowing from the breeze.
Bluish-black silk falls past her shoulders, tangling upwards, dancing, as her feet soaked in
the dew. Taking steady strides, her precious stones on the pearl, never loosing it, never
does the hawk take its eyes off the prey.
The feather at a desist, lingered in the air, it were as if the wind had relinquished,
descending from the north, the only chill was from curiosity, and maybe fear. Beneath the
obsidian, below the stagnant purity, a trajectory. The same genus that the innocent
pursued, yet defiled. These feathers not from doves nor angels, but from raven or demon.
The child proceeded as the taintlessness was carried further.
The pattern was crossed, a patchwork of softness tamed, sable countless for
miles. Intricate helixes and hybrids placed precisely, an equilibrium transpired here.
Thousands of mathematicians must have arranged this labyrinth on the grid. But what
pattern is this? The child reached down to trace, yet, as her frail hand touched the ebon
path, the wild creatures flew. Untamed, entangling in a windstorm, intersecting and
creating new patterns no one could ever trace. Melting into the trees, concealing
themselves, becoming the very shadows that haunt dreams.
The child was taken aback, terrified, gasping for breath, her piercing emeralds
breaking through the shadow, glowing with a strange luminescence from the light of the
stars. Crawling on hands and knees, her gown wet and muddy, curiosity took control, as
it does to all child minds. The virgin feather, shimmering in the child’s eyes, as she
followed the white rabbit into a morbid wonderland.
The pure feather beckoned her to come, performing tricks in the wind. She
walked at a slow pace, knowing very well it would wait for her. Her eyes rapidly sweeping
the trees, the soft scent of pine, and crisp air filled her nostrils. The night was tranquil, no
sounds reverberating, no insect’s music humming into the air... she couldn't even hear her
own vibration on the dirt trail, nor the pulsation of her own heart. The soil was not
typical, it was autumn, the time when the ground is parched and the air should smell of
decay. But the earth was impressible, caring for her adolescent feet.
The feather knew her thoughts, or had realized this itself. At that moment the
aroma of decaying leaves took place, once comforting, now terrified her. She quickened
her pace, the ground no longer smooth, jagged rocks were penetrating her feet. In the
trees, no pine cones hung from the branches, but white wings, no, crimson, angel wings
ripped from their bodies, dangling profusely from the idle timber.
Scrambling to keep her sanity, she ran. There, a door! A heavy iron gateway
ending the path. The feather ahead of her circling the door as if calling "Here, child, come,
hurry!" Her tiny fists pounding the door, an echo was heard. The innocence could feel
them coming, sense them. Crying hysterically, tears surging down her face, sobbing. Her
tears were not prevalent, they too were taken by the baneful in this place. From the
verdant, flowed rivers, as if reflecting the night sky. An ebony tear flows past her scarlet
cheeks, drips off her chin and splashes to the earth, exploding upwards shattering into tiny
droplets, as two flames grabbed hold, and seized her.