At Ghoul's Early Twilight

Dennis L. Siluk


'Twas empty, the salty sky, at earliest twilight. Quiet, was their flight over sea and bog. Far off, far off a flood of noises oozed in the dark. Throbbing noises, sounds with howls. Weathered skulls, breasts bare, ghouls crowned with dark, a dark mist—emanating from the undergrowth within; all waiting, waiting for the passing of the seagulls again; waiting, just waiting with bitten-lips.

The seagulls flew low, low by the amorous reptiles—and then passed the refulgent ghouls, all were looking up, up, like stemmed lit-foliage, lost in the dark green-sea; like fire bugs: looking up, up: up into the shadowy eyes of early twilight—as the gulls, gulls flew low, low: low with lamp-lit-eyes, low they flew through the sky; too low this time.

"Ah! tho knowith fate seats a carcass at early-twilight," whispered the Master Ghoul to his Horde: then his tongue slurped out, out like a reptilian beast—ripping a gull from the sky to his feet; its mate, torn asunder. Flying in circles in wonder, "What's amiss?" she cried, cried, with salty-eyes, looking into the eerie twilight, into the shadowy shrubbery, "what's wrong, wrong?" she sighed, sighed—heavily, as she flew high, high, and higher; listening to the muffled sounds of kicking feet, in wonder.

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