Accused: Eye Color and Man
Accused
The small figure bent over a table place intentionally sideways in the center of a small, dirt-floored room. The only light source that allowed him to see was the little light that trickled in through the filth stained window. As his hands worked, sewing the soft, bristled fur, a chorus of childish voices found its way into the house from outside.
“Ring around the rosy,” they sang.
The figure couldn’t help but to cringe at the intricate lyrics, knowing their horrible meaning.
“Pocket full of posies.”
The man stood up to straighten his back, plucking his new work up as he did so. Pinched gently between his thumb and forefinger was the inert body of a rat, its fur hardened with dirt. The rat, though no longer alive, was positioned with its back arched up into the air and its paws held up as if ready to leap, whether to strike or flee.
“Ashes, ashes.”
A small drizzle started to fall from the gray clouds outside. Fat rain drops thumped gently against the wooden door. The man placed the rat on the window sill, the heavy stains of dirt working as a sufficient background of his new masterpiece. The rain started to fall harder from the miserable sky, and then even harder still. The fat drops pounded harshly now against the door and with a distinct flash of lightning that illuminated the rat’s eyes, lighting up its dead gaze, followed by the crack of raging thunder, it was almost as if death itself rapped upon his door. And as the small children fled back to their homes, their last chorus echoed through the wind, raising the hair on the man’s neck and sending a cold shiver down his spine.
“We all fall down.”
Johnathan Morger, a tall, thin man with dark hair and hazel eyes, stood behind a small woman and her three children as he waited to meet the sorceress. It had started to rain an hour ago, and if he hadn’t of had to come outside, he wouldn’t have. His clothes were already soaked with rain water. The offer of protection is what drove him to come.
The small figure bent over a table place intentionally sideways in the center of a small, dirt-floored room. The only light source that allowed him to see was the little light that trickled in through the filth stained window. As his hands worked, sewing the soft, bristled fur, a chorus of childish voices found its way into the house from outside.
“Ring around the rosy,” they sang.
The figure couldn’t help but to cringe at the intricate lyrics, knowing their horrible meaning.
“Pocket full of posies.”
The man stood up to straighten his back, plucking his new work up as he did so. Pinched gently between his thumb and forefinger was the inert body of a rat, its fur hardened with dirt. The rat, though no longer alive, was positioned with its back arched up into the air and its paws held up as if ready to leap, whether to strike or flee.
“Ashes, ashes.”
A small drizzle started to fall from the gray clouds outside. Fat rain drops thumped gently against the wooden door. The man placed the rat on the window sill, the heavy stains of dirt working as a sufficient background of his new masterpiece. The rain started to fall harder from the miserable sky, and then even harder still. The fat drops pounded harshly now against the door and with a distinct flash of lightning that illuminated the rat’s eyes, lighting up its dead gaze, followed by the crack of raging thunder, it was almost as if death itself rapped upon his door. And as the small children fled back to their homes, their last chorus echoed through the wind, raising the hair on the man’s neck and sending a cold shiver down his spine.
“We all fall down.”
Johnathan Morger, a tall, thin man with dark hair and hazel eyes, stood behind a small woman and her three children as he waited to meet the sorceress. It had started to rain an hour ago, and if he hadn’t of had to come outside, he wouldn’t have. His clothes were already soaked with rain water. The offer of protection is what drove him to come.