A story about shadows, experimenting with the poetic device caesura. |
In a place east of here, the night crashes down, the gloom fills up the streets, and blackness smothers the town. No evening ever arrives, no gradual fading of light, but simply immediate, inescapable, night. People do live here, but don’t appear after four; they just hide in their homes, a bar on the door. And yet, to a watcher, nothing seems to be wrong, but it’s shadows they fear, and the shadows’ dark song. For the shadows here sing, and if you’re out on the street, then their song will call you, seductive and sweet. You cannot resist them, you will not stay still, and the shadows will lure you, embrace you, and kill. The choir of Medoma, this fear-stricken town, was once best in the land, famous and renowned. But a king who was envious ascended the throne, and could not stand to hear their voices, so superior to his own. With help from his wizards, he stole their ability to sing, not caring that he crippled them, like a bird’s broken wing. Deprived of the music, their world turned to grey, their lives held no joy, and they faded away. The choir is gone, but their shadows remain, singing of anger, of revenge and of pain. They’re eternally bitter, full of fury and spite, so if you go to Medoma, beware of the night. |