The soul-snatcher glared at me from the dusty street corner with fiery orange eyes, his hands cupped over his mouth because of the early morning cold.
I had been out late that night, and I was returning home a little tipsy.
“Hello there,” he said. “Looking for your fix?”
See the silver moon through the trees,
but don’t open the gates that lead to the dark forest.
I forget what the outside’s like;
in the twilight, hear the groans of the dying.
They claw at the gates, fingernails breaking.
They are not supernatural or beasts or animal-men,
they are just the unfortunates.
In this commune, this aged mansion of the lucky ones,
we pray for the outside.
It was a full moon that night, a bright and powerful moon
that beamed blinding light onto the blankets of snow that covered the hills.
A few months ago, I began looking through my journals at old poems I had written. “Strange planet” has gone through several revisions over the past year or so, and this is where I’m at with it so far.
Here’s a piece of flash fiction I wrote a few years ago about supernatural visions and the fanaticism they may cause: