She sat in a corner
stranded,alone
while he stood in another
for reasons unknown
She a beauty
He no less
He asked for a dance
And she said Yes
The night was young
they danced to the beat
as he held her close
she felt so complete
he danced like water
swift and smooth
so brilliant so flawless
was his every move
Such was the authority
of his mysterious fragrance
she was so compelled
to lose her every sense
as he swayed her off her feet
she gazed into his eyes
cold and black
they had so much to hide
She knew something was wrong
just felt not right
but his charm was such
she gave up outright
He took her away
Away to the sea
Among the stars
To the land of fantasy
A moonless night
The wind so cold
She had no clue
how the night will unfold
She saw him staring
A God in flesh
with such audacity
it put her to unrest
she asked "where r we going?"
looking for a hint
"Into the darkness" he said
she smiled but he didn't
and slowly he moved
one step at a time
closer and closer
it sent shivers down her spine
He played with her
A wolf with his prey
deciding between
to slay or to flay...
It was her last chance
she knew it well
a precious one
lest she would be quelled
she pushed him away
with all her might
he tripped he slipped
into the darkness infinite
she called for help
into the darkness unknown
what came back
was her voice alone
soaked in blood
she cried and cried
she stumbled she fell
how much she tried
she made it to the road
at last the light
the words failed her
none could express her delight
As if the gods were kind
she saw a car
though a few yards away
yet it seemed so far
she raised her hand
blood choking her snout
she screamed for help
but none came out
and then she felt
his cool breath on her neck
in that moment she saw
her last hope wrecked
she slowly turned around
he was a breath away
she closed her eyes
there was no other way
dripping in blood
he caressed her hair
she knew its over
she said her last prayer
weather was sleety
skies were grim
so were his desires
every one of them
he was slow and perfect
as if the time stopped
he took his knife
and began to chop
piece by piece
he cut her down
her heart was last
a shade of reddish brown
At last the dawn hung
above the sinful land
the dew lazy and fresh
drenched the grass strands...
About the Creator
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More stories from Muhammad Sheraz and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Last Resident
This story took place in the spring of 2018, when my friend and I were 21 years old. We had met in high school and bonded over our shared love of outdoor adventure. There's an old railroad-turned-gravel trail that winds through the heavy forests and valleys near our midwestern town for over 10 miles.
By spooky session7 days ago in Poets
Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins3 days ago in Fiction
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