The Bison

A Bison, monstrously tall, its fur dark and forbidding. It's horn's a signature of the Devil. Formidably thunders its ton of weight on cracked hoofs through a barren land with flaming fire from its eyes. It's impending approach, makes your legs go weak, your skin turns pale and boils the blood within your veins. Its presence sends a trembling fear to the very core of you and your eyes dart around you, to find an escape, to vanish from where you are. You know, the dangers that await you if you stay rooted to where you stand. Yet, all around you is nothing. An emptiness, a darkened desolate land. Only vast herculean mountains in the distant, impoverished blackened ground beneath you and moody storm clouds above you heralding disturbance and anger within them, merging the rain and the thunder to wage a war of violence amongst them. There is no escape. The only light and the superior warmth breathes from the flames blazing from the eyes of the beast, and it thunders closer, its hoofs leaving dust clouds and at that moment surreptitiously you try to form a plan.

Your mind races and your thoughts disjoint and your body reacts, quivering on a diminutive spot, in the expanse of void land surrounding you. Closer it thuds, shaking the ground. Smaller you shrink as its colossal frame nears. The sound of its echoing grunts vibrates through you. It's violent steam snorting from its nostrils, adding to its terrifying presence approaching you and your exasperating need to escape. Again, you search for a way out. Your mind disorientates itself.
Similarly, you freeze to the spot that you quiver on. Fear has taken hold of you, the precise trepidation and terror, the beast, desires you to feel. To feel helpless, to feel trapped. Enslaved to its perception of horror and afflicting torment upon you to accumulate a more fearsome perception of itself.
Yet, still, you stay rooted where you stand as the beast reaches you. In an almighty skid and thud, it blows out steam from its nostrils. It blazes the flames from its eyes, it's head gargantuan, its horns broad and formidable and the darkened barren dust cyclones around you both. It's massive frame towering yours, its overall intimidating stature seems as vast as the emptiness that surrounds you, and you feel minuscule. Inconsequential. But here, right in front of you, spitting angry steam over you, smothering you in barren dust, burning your flesh with its fire. Is a beast glaring right at you, demanding your fear. Thirsting for your defects. Hungry for your feebleness. Yearning to debilitate you.

Yet, still, you stand firm in your shudder on that small spot. And you realize, the beast doesn't move. It does nothing. Its formidable terror is just that. It doesn't touch you; it doesn't hurt you. And the storm clouds rumble and the skies open up, and large droplets of rain begin to fall from the heavens, saturating the fire from its eyes. And you see, inside. Through the deep recesses that the flames perforated and you see into its soul, and you realize that your courage vanquished its power, the beast subdues, and the dust settles. The skies opened further, and the rain brings new life with buds sprouting from the barren land. And there you stand on that spot and suddenly you feel tall. You feel fearless, you reach out to the beast and lay your hands upon its horns and rend them from his head, uncloaking its terror and exposing its vulnerability, spilling its blood on the spot that you stand, marking it as the last day of its power.

Copyright © 2019 T.C. Holls 6466220419S022