There’s a hangman in the wind tonight. They left him hanging in an old oak tree. Whistling in the dead night air. Whistling an earthy lullaby. As the wind catches gaps. In his broken teeth. The old tree cradles him. As a mother holds her plague child. Shaking and rustling.
The orange and brown leaves still dead from winter. Left hanging on an old oak tree. Like executed men on stem nooses. Flies rest to the sounds of music. With full bellies. Finding perch to feast before. Taking flight. And beating their paper thin membrane wings together. The world moves differently through the many colored eyes. Of flies. Decrepit flesh swaying in the cold spring night.
Storms patrol sectors on the planes. Lumbering giants. Taking slow gargantuan steps across the sky. Inclement guardians, their. Purpose comes from the direction of wind.
Lighting explodes silently. Painting surreal and without purpose. Pale eyes. Stare without hesitation or purpose. Onto oblivion. And over the planes of beasts.
Thunder crackles to life. In an artillery-like barrage of percussion. Beating the drums of war. Along to the hangman’s whistle. Calling home the night.
Nate Caines was born and raised in Chicago, but grew up mostly in the woods. After high school he ran away to various mountains, where he still dwells. Previous to this story, he was unpublished in any field.