How the horseman lost his head

Wednesday, 27 October 2010

The moon shone bright and full upon this night as the heinous hag hunched over her violently frothing cauldron, muttering black thoughts and hissing unspeakable evils through her putrid rotting excuse for teeth. Chopped Liver, her manky fleabagged feline, bristled his bottlebrush coat as he gnawed ravenously on the remnants of a small child’s dismembered ankle bone cast aside at the trunk of a nearby sycamore tree.

A mile away, a dark cloaked figure galloped madly through the uneven cobbled lanes of Chatterton hamlet, scythe in hand glinting in the moonlight. The flanks of his coal-black horse heaved with exhaustion, having already hastened 3 mile that night. But the steed required no whip or spur. She knew no one was safe yet.

As the hag withdrew a gnarled finger from her protruding beak, tossing discovered gremlins into the concocted mutation broiling away in the pot, a crow squawked with delight as it pecked tasty eyeballs from the decaying bodies dangling amidst the tree branches. A blood curdling screech formed in the base of the hag’s throat as she grew more and more excited and incensed.

The plight of man and horse became increasingly urgent as they closed in on the sycamore forest. The mare quivered with nervous tension, but never missed a beat as she rose, effortlessly gliding over the high stonewall of the forest perimeter with several feet to spare.

Lickety-split, the hag whirled around as the pair thundered upon her. The horseman was no match for this embittered wretch of a woman as she grabbed the glinting scythe from his mitt and raised it mercilessly. She fucken hated it when he was late for dinner.