Slash slash slash
He raised the chair above his head with all the strength that he could muster and swung again.
Slash slash slash
He tore a way through the vines and the leaves, the grass and the trees. Cutting with giant arches of the chair, leading with his memories of her into the thick black nothing that the jungle seemed to surround and swallow.
A noise. A snap, a sound. He halts, frozen with the chair above his head and looks first left. Slow. Careful. Nothing but green. He looks then right. Once more slow. Careful. Something. There, in the midst of the leaves, a face. A white face. A women's face. It's her. "Persephone," he declares. He drops the chair. The gunshot fills the air.
And he falls, dead to a bullet from his friend's gun while the woman he sought, the one his friend sought to impress, looks into the overgrown garden, the overgrown wood, and sees instead of a buck or a stag a single chair, and sprawled upon it the blood stained form of a naked man.
YOU ARE READING
Persephone
Short StoryA wife goes mad on the night of her marriage and her husband is left alone in an empty house. Filled with despair and longing, he sets out on a dream-filled voyage to find her. This text was written while listening to the first three minutes of Beet...
