TOUCH: By Walter Conley
Monday, October 25th, 2010They convinced him that his lover was a witch, so he did the right thing and took her life.
There was nothing extraordinary—not a hint of dark power—in her struggle. He ran to keep from thinking of her, of what his hands had ended between them. Sometime in the night, he collapsed on his back, in the midst of a softly-pitched meadow.
Clouds caught the moon like burning tinsel high in the air above him.
Eyes fixed heavenward, heart in hell, the young man lay unaware of the flat, black shape—like the shadow of a hand, but neither one nor the other—which arose from a far-off drop of blood, skimmed the surface of a breathing lake, wound through the dim and dew-jeweled forest and glided up the meadow, till it had settled over his nose and mouth and pinned him down to Death.
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©2010 Walter Conley
Walter Conley’s poetry and fiction appear in the small press, anthologies and at such online sites as Danse Macabre, Gloom Cupboard and A Twist of Noir. He edits the ezine disenthralled and blogs at
Back Again and Gone (http://baag2009.blogspot.com).
