LJ Idol Week 1: I Need the Struggle to Feel Alive
I Need the Struggle to Feel Alive
Tucked very neatly in the center of the woods was an impossibly small home that housed an impossibly large amount of space on the inside. Truly, the hag and the cat did not even need the space available and spent most of their time in the kitchen, all wood and herb and warm hearth. The home was impossibly small because it never looked like a house--unless she wanted it to, of course, which she never did. Some days it was a wishing well, others an oak. No matter how the home presented, an opening was visible upon close enough inspection and all she had to do was step one foot into the well, or the rotten hollow in the wood, and she'd land her next step on her kitchen floor.
The amorphous home was largely a novelty. If she wanted, the hag could easily live in a regular house, or an invisible house, but hers was a terribly mischievous nature. It brought her great joy when a stray wanderer from the current nearest village happened by and squinted at the spot where he swore a wishing well sat just a few days prior. The next time he'd stare, agape in disbelief, at the wishing well reappeared. Old habits never die, and the hag was very, very old and would be alive for quite a long time.
Lately, she'd been coming in only near twilight, regaling the cat with tales from the village. This was, of course, of very little interest to the cat, but though he was ill-tempered at times, he was fiercely loyal to the hag and felt it prudent to always pay her mind. She had been working this village for some time, and it was nearing the end. At first, it was more important to be seen during the day. The hag had decided to appear with innocence, long black hair braided tight, a demure smile --the most beautiful girl in the village, nearly too bashful to speak. When enough curiousity was piqued, she had shifted from sweet and reserved to brazen and sharp. Folks in the village took note of the change in her demeanor, and it was easy from that point. She had taken more to the night, waiting til strange hours to run past the houses, making just enough ruckus to prompt the prying eyes of wondering minds.
The previous night, she had decided it was time. She had waited until three of the young men from the village crossed her path, and then, with a cackle that chilled the bone, took toward the moon on her broom. All three watched in amazement. One man can lie and two can conspire, but three was enough to do the trick. Her name was on all village lips and the gallows as well.
The hag stood at the edge of the village, taking a moment to decide how she wanted to present. In the end she chose the polite, reserved young woman from the beginning. A shadow of doubt strengthened the fiber of the righteous.
At first, the village was eerily still. As she neared the center circle, two men appeared and she was instantly seized. The hag wriggled and writhed, grin hidden by a mask of fear. It would not be long, she knew. Sometimes she waited for weeks, but she had learned to choose smaller villages in favor of busier towns when she didn't feel like embracing the delay. This time, she was alone inside stone cell walls. This was preferred; there was a delicious satisfaction in the maddening nature of solitude.
The hag spent three days in the cell. She could have returned home at any point, but where was the fun in that? She rubbed dirt on her cheeks and basked in cold drafts, gorging herself on delicious moments of stripped humanity. The cat stayed away during the day, as he was not especially social, but at night he could be seen curled outside the door to the cell. He found the hag's habits to be an odd waste of time, but then again, she did have plenty of time and he was a dedicated companion. He didn't care for the final part, however; he would be safe in the kitchen at the hearth waiting for it to be done.
The trial was held following supper on the third day. The hag--the accused--stood before the village and faced her charges: witchcraft. Her guilty verdict was swift and stood tall, punctuated by the three angrily pointed fingers of the brave accusers. She was sentenced to death by hanging, set three days away. At this point, the hag was so beside herself in anticipation that she had no interest in three more days of solitude. With a twist in her wrist and a flick of her neck, the tallest of the accusers doubled over in pain. When he lifted his head again, his neck snapped to an impossible angle and he fell to the floor, dead. The court was in uproar and the hag found herself led to the beacon at the center of the village: the gallows.
The day had a breeze, but it fell still as the hag settled into the rope, toes tipped to reach the barrel beneathe. She stared at the faces before her with their mouths twisted in rage. They were afraid, intrigued, and enraged--they were alive, and it added a splash like warm tea to her belly to know that this moment electrified others as well as herself.
When the barrel fell, the hag's hands were on the rope, pulling for space to fit gasped breath. Her feet kicked madly, granting satisfaction to the spectators who remained. As the life swinging before them dissipated, so did they. As the sun set, the hag was still and a crow was the only living creature who remained. Had the villagers stayed, they might have watched as the hag shifted--the crows eyes became brighter and it watched, head cocked, the form left behind in the noose. When the sun rose again and they returned, they would find the hag's dress stuffed with straw and a head made from burlap, twisting in the wind and grinning at her final gift of deeply instilled fear.
The crow took toward the center of the woods. In a blink the hag stood, poised to jump down the well. She took a hearty leap and landed solid, both feet on her kitchen floor. The cat stretched and yawned, rolling to look at her inquisitively. She was rejuvinated, glowing even, as she sat to stroke her companion. "When you are alive always," she told the cat, "there is no greater reminder of how to feel alive than to feel dead." The cat nestled close, feigning agreement. Truly, he thought the hag was wasting her time, but he did prefer when she slept easy and with a smile, free from the weight of weathered storms. Tonight would be good. Tonight would be light; it would be free of the weight of a very, very long life.
This was my entry for LJ Idol Week 1. If you would like to read the other entries and vote, you can go here! I am in the second tribe.
Tucked very neatly in the center of the woods was an impossibly small home that housed an impossibly large amount of space on the inside. Truly, the hag and the cat did not even need the space available and spent most of their time in the kitchen, all wood and herb and warm hearth. The home was impossibly small because it never looked like a house--unless she wanted it to, of course, which she never did. Some days it was a wishing well, others an oak. No matter how the home presented, an opening was visible upon close enough inspection and all she had to do was step one foot into the well, or the rotten hollow in the wood, and she'd land her next step on her kitchen floor.
The amorphous home was largely a novelty. If she wanted, the hag could easily live in a regular house, or an invisible house, but hers was a terribly mischievous nature. It brought her great joy when a stray wanderer from the current nearest village happened by and squinted at the spot where he swore a wishing well sat just a few days prior. The next time he'd stare, agape in disbelief, at the wishing well reappeared. Old habits never die, and the hag was very, very old and would be alive for quite a long time.
Lately, she'd been coming in only near twilight, regaling the cat with tales from the village. This was, of course, of very little interest to the cat, but though he was ill-tempered at times, he was fiercely loyal to the hag and felt it prudent to always pay her mind. She had been working this village for some time, and it was nearing the end. At first, it was more important to be seen during the day. The hag had decided to appear with innocence, long black hair braided tight, a demure smile --the most beautiful girl in the village, nearly too bashful to speak. When enough curiousity was piqued, she had shifted from sweet and reserved to brazen and sharp. Folks in the village took note of the change in her demeanor, and it was easy from that point. She had taken more to the night, waiting til strange hours to run past the houses, making just enough ruckus to prompt the prying eyes of wondering minds.
The previous night, she had decided it was time. She had waited until three of the young men from the village crossed her path, and then, with a cackle that chilled the bone, took toward the moon on her broom. All three watched in amazement. One man can lie and two can conspire, but three was enough to do the trick. Her name was on all village lips and the gallows as well.
The hag stood at the edge of the village, taking a moment to decide how she wanted to present. In the end she chose the polite, reserved young woman from the beginning. A shadow of doubt strengthened the fiber of the righteous.
At first, the village was eerily still. As she neared the center circle, two men appeared and she was instantly seized. The hag wriggled and writhed, grin hidden by a mask of fear. It would not be long, she knew. Sometimes she waited for weeks, but she had learned to choose smaller villages in favor of busier towns when she didn't feel like embracing the delay. This time, she was alone inside stone cell walls. This was preferred; there was a delicious satisfaction in the maddening nature of solitude.
The hag spent three days in the cell. She could have returned home at any point, but where was the fun in that? She rubbed dirt on her cheeks and basked in cold drafts, gorging herself on delicious moments of stripped humanity. The cat stayed away during the day, as he was not especially social, but at night he could be seen curled outside the door to the cell. He found the hag's habits to be an odd waste of time, but then again, she did have plenty of time and he was a dedicated companion. He didn't care for the final part, however; he would be safe in the kitchen at the hearth waiting for it to be done.
The trial was held following supper on the third day. The hag--the accused--stood before the village and faced her charges: witchcraft. Her guilty verdict was swift and stood tall, punctuated by the three angrily pointed fingers of the brave accusers. She was sentenced to death by hanging, set three days away. At this point, the hag was so beside herself in anticipation that she had no interest in three more days of solitude. With a twist in her wrist and a flick of her neck, the tallest of the accusers doubled over in pain. When he lifted his head again, his neck snapped to an impossible angle and he fell to the floor, dead. The court was in uproar and the hag found herself led to the beacon at the center of the village: the gallows.
The day had a breeze, but it fell still as the hag settled into the rope, toes tipped to reach the barrel beneathe. She stared at the faces before her with their mouths twisted in rage. They were afraid, intrigued, and enraged--they were alive, and it added a splash like warm tea to her belly to know that this moment electrified others as well as herself.
When the barrel fell, the hag's hands were on the rope, pulling for space to fit gasped breath. Her feet kicked madly, granting satisfaction to the spectators who remained. As the life swinging before them dissipated, so did they. As the sun set, the hag was still and a crow was the only living creature who remained. Had the villagers stayed, they might have watched as the hag shifted--the crows eyes became brighter and it watched, head cocked, the form left behind in the noose. When the sun rose again and they returned, they would find the hag's dress stuffed with straw and a head made from burlap, twisting in the wind and grinning at her final gift of deeply instilled fear.
The crow took toward the center of the woods. In a blink the hag stood, poised to jump down the well. She took a hearty leap and landed solid, both feet on her kitchen floor. The cat stretched and yawned, rolling to look at her inquisitively. She was rejuvinated, glowing even, as she sat to stroke her companion. "When you are alive always," she told the cat, "there is no greater reminder of how to feel alive than to feel dead." The cat nestled close, feigning agreement. Truly, he thought the hag was wasting her time, but he did prefer when she slept easy and with a smile, free from the weight of weathered storms. Tonight would be good. Tonight would be light; it would be free of the weight of a very, very long life.
This was my entry for LJ Idol Week 1. If you would like to read the other entries and vote, you can go here! I am in the second tribe.