With every sweep of its white, sightless eyes, a deafening silence consumed everything. Its eyes cast spotlights upon the otherwise pitch black forest floor. I could not see the stars anymore. Its head was a great, rotting mushroom. It swayed on its shoulders, threatening to fall off its pale neck at any time. Dirt crumbled to the ground with every movement. Its trunk and limbs were thick and ribbed, cracked in some areas. But its fingers were long and thin, sprouting from the stumps like roots, snaking, floating tentacles weaving between the trees.
The tips of each tentacle probed everything it came into contact with. Its eyes served no purpose except to freeze anything under the bright light, but it worked on me anyway. I could not move. My breathing slowed to a silent tremble. My bare toes twitched in the grass. The tentacles crept towards me, brushing against tree trunks and ferns, until I felt one brush against my cheek. Every probe froze. Then they pulled away with a violent jerk, and a shattering screech broke the silence.
Its eyes bored into mine. I couldn’t move.
YOU ARE READING
Twisted Dreams
PoetryA collection of short stories, poems, and half-written ramblings. ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 dream \ ˈdrēm \ 1 : a series of thoughts, visions, or feelings that happen during sleep ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 night·m...
