Squeaky Wheels

The market was miles away
and fleeing further, but the
night was creeping clumsily on.

one foot in front of the other

in a weekly ritual, his boots were worn
right through, right through the green
moss you could see his trail through
the squishy known unknown.

week after week, year after year,
he never saw a soul

through barrow and bog
he pushed his cart, the thump
of the wheels lamenting
motion. which is why he
noticed the absence of sound
for a heartbeat.
silence is an incantation,
invocation. she comes
in it.

she is alabaster,
a sculpture
carved of wind
and ice. he closes his eyes, inhales
the apparition – a sacrifice in smoke –
he smells the veil thinning between the worlds

he shivers with the
bogbreath, the breeze
all hot and cold. it sparks
all around him, an
unseen carnal force.

her arms caress
his wrinkled hands

he lets go the handle
of his cart,
reaches out to her

but she, like him,
is no more here

there is only
the cart

its wheels
spinning,
chirping,
leaping
over
the moment
before it
passes.


(For a prompt at Real Toads: Ghost stories using at least 3 of these words: fairy, portal, sacrifice, feast, smoke, winter, slaughter, spirit, veil, ritual, trick, & disguise.

I used: ritual, veil, sacrifice, & smoke, I think. Enjoy, and good night!)