The Grass Temple

The Grass Temple

There is a door in me; through my wide yellowing pelt of hoary sedge-hair you may spy it, but not if you come seeking. To those who seek, that door is shut and sealed against a motive formed before you knew me well, before you had seen by bramble barbs and the wild, clawed things that weave their desire paths through my own wyllt and slough and call me Home.

There is a door in me, and like as not it will devour you. Beyond its threshold lies no rest or comfort, only a snaggletoothed and tusked maw, a gullet slick and hot to loose yourself in, no sweet zone of fae maids, daze or floral scents. Deep in my dark belly, heroes are made, and villains too, death may enter and life may leave and the ossuary of all the world is but a bright blade's breath away.

There is a door in me, traveller. Seek it not, there is no key, no word, no trick by which to tame its grim keeper and no tales were ever told of treasure deep within. Nevertheless, it is a door and if on some wretched day or night, lost and weary, blinded by iron or salt or hungering for all the green lush life which sun and sky should bring but seldom do, if you are reaching out with blistered claws, parched throat thirsting for nothing but the water locked within the unrelenting rock, then there is a door in this old hill and, promising nothing, it will open.

This flash piece was written thanks to a Wednesday Words writing prompt from PT Wyant: A door set into a hillside.