A drabble written for a Pen of the Damned photo-prompt. For this piece, I am both photographer and word twister… 😉
The metamorphosis begins with the lick of first dew. As Mother’s milk rains down, do we not feel the fracture, the impending breach; do we not begin to break under her ever present gaze? To hold fast we strive, yet a fool’s errand that. Mother will have her way, with rod or lash; we will obey. Extruded beyond time, a limit reached, one gives way with a whispered screech of banshees yet unheard. For as the coil rips asunder, so does the edge tip; the ferry no longer granting safe passage, we no longer the guardians in Mother’s good grace.
Head over to Pen of the Damned to read the other
photo-prompt flashes in this collection.
© Copyright Nina D’Arcangela.