Nightmare Fuel, 2017 Prologue - In the Care of the Fourth Sister

Welcome to October! Old internet friend Bliss Morgan hosts an annual flash-fiction project, in which anyone who so chooses can write a poem, fragment of a novel, flash-fiction piece, or whatever else strikes their fancy. Unlike me, Bliss is not an early riser so we don't yet have the first image. I'll start then, with a trifle - a prologue to a month of fiction based on an image I borrowed from her. If you like this little crocheted skull  you can, of course, buy an entire shawl or headscarf of it from her Etsy shop.

 In the Care of the Fourth Sister

From Hell's Heart, I stab at thee

In a distant cave lived three sisters. This we all know.

One spins.
One measures.
One cuts.

And now, I think I am quite ready to go on another journey. Are you coming?

Few are aware of the third sister, for few care to think of what happens to the thread after it is cut.
                                         

                      Then fall Caesar!

Our fear of Atropos and her shears, though neither she nor her tools are cruel. Those sheers have honed on a steel, on spidersilk, on the dawn's light until they are sharp as thought, that many never feel the cut when it comes. Yes, we fear the flashing blades so greatly that we don't look beyond to what comes of the threads once cut.

To she may gather them.

Yfantis is not well-well known, and is not cruel.

                                                                 The horror! The Horror!

Not intentionally.

They say that something of us remains after the thread is cut, an echo. That what comes after is like a dream, one without end.

That's what they say.

                           "I'd hate to die twice. It's so boring"

And now you know that it's true.

You didn't feel the cut, of course. Atropos keeps her shears sharp. It's OK, really, because you were tired. So very tired. Breathing had become a chore until/
                                                                                           she cut/

                                                                                                         and it stopped.



  And now, I think I am quite ready to go on another journey. Are you coming?

And just darkness. Awareness without breath.

Time passes.

It was fun

You think you hear voices as you're taken, twisted. In the darkness, voices.






                                                                                         "I AM Isaac Asmiov"
                       


"Last words are for fools who've not said enough"


The voices fade. You hear yours, indistinguishable from theirs.


The last sister continues her work.

                                   The voices echo without breath, without thought.

Forever.

And now, I think I am quite ready to go on another journey.

 Are you coming?