once, a hunter caught sight of Artemis bathing, and was turned to as stag |
I wonder how they felt, those hunting hounds who fell upon the stag as their master trained them to from puppyhood as he had their doggie ancestors before them, shouting them on as they tore apart rags as they howled as they caught the scent of some new prey— then scratching their ears and praising their fierce focus and calling them good dogs and letting them lick him all over his face. I wonder how they felt as they chased the stag (a white stag out of myth, so appropriate for a questing prince) through the woods, as their master commanded. a milk white beast that moved more clumsily than they were accustomed with antlers that spanned the gaps between the trees, that caught its hide on thorns, uncertain of its way so that the white hide was stained red and dripped a stronger spore— until suddenly they caught up, in a clearing where it could no longer run. I wonder how they felt as the goddess’ magic slipped away and their master lay before them, his blood between their teeth, his eyes clouding and dim with only breath enough to whisper his tale to be passed among the elders and youth of Greece, so that the next man lost within the wood would close his eyes at the sound of nymphs bathing for the goddess is cruel and jealous of her privacy. I hope he had breath enough to forgive them, to praise his good dogs who hadn’t meant it, and now would howl their sorrow at their master’s grave. line count: 54 Prompt for: Jan 4, 2016 ▼ |