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Hunger.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Interplanet Janet.”

A cold land of eternal mist it was,

         Of dreams that die with the shut of the eye;

       And of looming castles high in the grey,

         Forever the slave of a winter sky.

High in the bare trees, a raven caws.

He, the great sentinel, unfolds his magnificent ebony wings and watches with keen eyes, and even keener knowing. Atop his wooden throne he has endured the stagnant progression of time as though he was not that which he is; a living creature. He hops forward once, then twice, peering downwards upon that which he protects; a path of uncertain time, meandering through a land of uncertain myth. Darkness looms forever heavy in the moist air of this place, lingering like suffocating ropes between the tall phantoms of his forest. Though it is daytime, the light is diluted and grey.

Again, he caws, this time louder and deeper; defensive. He flutters over to a lower branch, hopping upon the bare wood with frantic, clutching claws. Something drips from the wood that his sharp hold penetrates, and in the obedient light of the dusk it almost has the appearance of blood; thick and dark. Cocking his head, he is drawn to the clattering sound of wood on rock, foreign noises in a world where the only sound is usually that of silence itself.

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