kestrel89

Ein aufdringliches Klopfen an der Tür riss die Muse aus ihren Überlegungen. „Ja?“, schnappte sie gereizt, und die Tür öffnete sich scheinbar von allein. „Hallo?“, fragte die Muse. „Mach schnell, ich bin beschäftigt.“

Ein Glöckchen bimmelte, und eine große, dicke Kröte machte einen Satz vorwärts in ihrem Laufrad. Sprungrad beschrieb die Konstruktion besser. Die Bewegung setzte einen komplizierten Mechanismus in Bewegung, und ließ die Muse aufseufzen.

Die Muse lag im Bett und schlief, oder versuchte es zumindest. Es war nicht ganz einfach, wenn man über einer Ideenfabrik wohnte.  Früher war das besser gewesen. Da hatte es weniger Menschen gegeben, die an der Realität herummäkelten und deshalb auch weniger Geister, die an der armen Wirklichkeit herumdokterten.  Früher war überhaupt alles besser gewesen, und je weiter man zurückging, desto besser wurde es. 

Da hatte es mal eine Zeit gegeben, in der die Menschen gar keine Zeit hatten, sich so viel Gedanken zu machen – zugegeben, es war die Zeit gewesen, als grob geschnittene Mamutfelle noch der letzte Schrei  gewesen waren – aber wenigstens hatte es damals noch nicht so viel Arbeit gegeben. Außerdem hatte man sie besser gewürdigt. Ach, was war das für eine Ära, als die Musen zu neunt gewesen waren, weil die Menschen beschlossen hatten, dass es neun Künste gäbe – Göttinnen waren sie damals gewesen, Göttinnen! Sie hatten einen eigenen Berg bewohnt, wo man ihnen Opfer gebracht hatte…

Und heute?

Heute war sie wieder allein, wenn man von der immer größer werdenden Anzahl Kaninchen absah, die sich auf den unteren Stockwerken eingenistet hatten. Großen, aggressive Kaninchen, die zum Teil einen merkwürdigen Sinn für Humor hatten und sich vermehrten wie – wie Karnickel. Sie wollte lieber nicht so genau wissen, wer sich das wieder ausgedacht hatte, am Ende war sie es noch selbst gewesen – kreative Kaninchen, also wirklich. ( Read more... )

First Entry, and I really don't know what to say. This is something I started a while ago. If there's any reaction to it, I might post more of the story... Some violence, maybe some language

Morgulon

It was almost morning. The moon had already vanished behind the horizon, the gray dawn of autumn hung like a great cloud over the small village. A few black birds had gathered on an empty field, filling the silence of first dawn with their hoarse caws. A cook crew at the village, and just a few moments later a human voice let out a high pitched scream full of horror, which caused the birds to rise and fly over to the forest at the edge of the field. Other people joined in the screaming, and a woman, so tired she could barely see where she walked, fled running and stumbling out of the village and over the fields, following the birds into the forest. She got caught in the dense undergrowth, bumped into trees, fell over roots and loose branches, but every time she pulled herself up again and staggered on, strangely enough without ever loosing direction. She was bleeding. Her bare feet were cut and torn by thorns and small branches, as was the rest of her body. Except for a large blanket, which she had wrapped around her lean figure and looked like stolen from some woman’s clothes line, she was naked.

When the first rays of sunlight were falling through the dense ceiling of leaves over her, they illuminated a haggard face with a straight nose, high cheekbones and thin lips. Her cheeks were sunken in, her hair matted. Despite the deep lines hunger, worry and fear had etched into her face she looked young, no older than twenty-two, twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. Still, her hair was gray. It was not the snowy gray old age brought, nor were there single white hairs within a black mop of hair, but a solid dark gray, like steel, or the water of a stormy sea. Yet even stranger than her hair was the color of her eyes, now almost closed with exhaustion, for they were amber, like the eyes of an owl, and looked panic and feverish like the eyes of a deer running from the hounds. 

Sometimes the woman turned her head to look back in the direction of the village, as if she was afraid of being followed, but there was nobody, nothing to see, no sound to hear, no footsteps echoing through the silence of the forest but her own. Finally, the woman slowed down, apparently feeling safer now, but that hunted look never quite left her eyes. She didn’t react, when a terrible ugly little man, all black, his head barely reaching up to her hips, appeared out of nowhere, hissed something, and vanished again. The same thing happened a few more times, and it was impossible to tell whether the black man was always the same, or always another.

“Leave me alone,” the woman ordered in a hoarse voice, when another black figure appeared. Again there was hissing, then soft sounds as from little feet running fast, and no more Black Men showed up.

The woman stopped, sighing, and looked at her torn feet. There was blood everywhere, on her hands, her body, even in her face. She swore quietly when she saw the damage on her feet, but not even that could explain all the blood she was covered in. ( Read more... )