Why the people don’t come out

If I keep my eyes closed long enough the people come out. It’s an old village in the mountains, medieval times. A woman with gray hair pulled back and a robe peeks out the window. Broken-down peasant men with dirty faces, poking their heads around the corner, looking to see if he’s still there. They can’t see me through the glass.

There’s a needlepoint print in the nursery, upstairs: red and green lilies. But there’s a face hiding in the petals, and the leaves are curling into hands, moving slow like a serpent.

Most times the people stay in their houses because they know he’s bad, they fear him. He makes them do bad things and then takes away their memories when they sleep. But they see what they did in their dreams and they wake screaming, not sure if it really happened.

I get tired of the same street, the stupid planter boxes and the half-timbered homes. No birds, no seasons, no sunsets. My little village and no-name people, hiding in the dark. Come out, wherever you are!

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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