Against the dim of the waning sun stands tall the shadow of the Yggdrasil. The Tree of Life dressed in dusk becomes the Tree of Death, a towering totem to the lives lived and spent- and lost- in the dark and in the night.
The dark roots of the tree drill downward through the ground full of bodies, clawing into the depths of worlds unknown. They dance a double helix with creature-built tunnels, the lightless mouths of which gape open at the ebony’s base. A madness pulses in the deep, alluring in it’s curiosity. A silent urgency pulls toward them, a secret promise draws the poking noses of the insatiable. A promise of adventure. In a quest to feed one’s head, one might tumble through, wherein they may chase a white rabbit and find a mad march hare.
The trunk thrusts ever upward, a solemn pillar of brush-stroked jet. Alump with knots and gnarled stumps, it is carved with the scars of ancient existence. Here and there stare hooded holes- windows to the beldame’s small and specious world. Fears cower here. Loneliness sleeps. But within them also flicker attractive lies, comforting offers, a tugging sense of longing. The promise of escape. Should one fall victim to the sweet seduction, one might clamber through, and hope to have a black cat cross their path.
Black branches twist into the darkling sky, each xyloid finger a subtle knife to tear at the dusty veil between worlds. Turning this way and that, one can see the cities sparkling through the blade slits in the aurora. Majesty and mystery pour from them, promising knowledge, opening new avenues of mind. One has only to reach out, to climb up, to achieve the heights of the skies themselves and step through the membrane of realities.
The Eagle has flown, replaced with a murder of crows. The breeze stirs a rhythm to the cacophonic call of the raven birds, creating a disruptive lullaby. To this tune, the persimmons dangling from the branches sway to, then fro, swirling plump red hips. They dance a sensuous and tempting Babydoll dance, begging desire, demanding fixation. And through it all the wind in the leaves, as though a serpent’s hiss, suggests in whispers;
Reach out and pluck the fruit of the ebon tree.
Hello and welcome to The Persimmon, a new section of The Flaneur dedicated to the darker end of the grey scale. Any form of art is welcome here for now, so long as the subject is dark, macabre, tragic, blackly comic, or bizarre. There is, however, a focus on literature. Short stories and poetry will be the bones of this category, with reviews of outside work to flesh it out. As such I am looking for submissions matching the theme and contributors whose boat is floated by the same.
For the time being I am focusing my search on fiction writers, reviewers with an interest in and knowledge of horror and the like, and interviewers to speak with other authors and artists on the subject. If you or someone you know would like to contribute in this area, please contact me or leave a comment.
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