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Description
'Vacancies...'

The moon reflects off of the canopy at night, illuminated like a halo that frames the stars, I walk, the ground moist beneath my feet, a sodden and anorexic dirt track stormed with jade velveteen moss and the surreptitious creeping of a myriad of toadstools. A pimpled frog sits upon my shoulder, croaking in my ears. ‘No one’s there’, it wheezes with nicotine lungs as the wind surges through the trees, the rustle of paper leaves whistle through my head, and I am not really listening, for the finding of a bundle of cloven hooves tied neatly with a silk bow before me. I hang them at my waist and keep walking, a mutiny hanging in the air as if the forest were to betray and swallow me whole.

I reach a clearing through the dewy brush where an old well erupts through the foliage like a stone tongue, an alabaster stag lays, his head pressed against the cold slab, I bend down to touch it and realise that he is missing his feet. I untie the severed heels from my belt and with needle and thread I sew them to his sanguine stubs, incontinently, they turn to hands before my eyes, and the pale deer wriggles rosy fingers audaciously through the earth like blushing roots. With a penetrating rumble it heaves itself upright, his great skull pushed to mine and eyes of fierce garnet boring into my mind like I were but an insect beneath a burning lens. I feel a swift rush of sandpaper across my cheek as he drags his tongue over my face, and then he is gone, a music box in his impression, with a dancing cat twirling to a lullaby I can’t quite make out while the rasp of the frog echoes in my ear; ‘No one’s there’ as I climb inside and close the door.

I climb down from the dark and find myself at a crossroads in the flora, fireflies swim through the air like phosphorescent fish, swarming like locusts around a small black dog, leashed to a squirming mandragora stem and grappling with the dirt. ‘You’ll die’ I say, my words stolen by the hush of towering trees. ‘You don’t know the meaning’, it replies on coarse throat, tugging at the root until it bursts from the ground, screaming like death through every part of me, and just like that, the animal collapses, and with dying breath blows itself away, burnt ash and bone dust scattering on the ground until nothing but a toe remains. The mandragora, now free, picks the dead dogs toe from the ground, devours the morsel and flees through the bushes. I take the leash from the floor and open a floorboard door, my amphibious acquaintance in my ear, ‘No one’s there’.

There’s a house now, in the distance, the porch light glimmering through a silhouette, I tread in slow motion on the sinking dirt, my shoes filling with mud and by the time I reach the gate it’s like I’m wading through tar, my lungs are heavy with fatigue and I have blood on my dress. The once incessant frog now lies limp in the crevice of my collar bone, sleeping and snoring quietly. I think for a moment I prefer it this way.

As I open the gate I become aware that the house before me is in fact my own, I hear the roses greet me from their beds and the familiar creaking of wooden deck as I approach the door. There is a lamp light shining through the window and the sweet scent of honey sticking in the balmy night air, the porch has been overgrown by weeds, they sting my hands as I pull them from the door, revealing a bronze, lion-headed door knocker with a ring through its swollen mandible. My deepest inhalation held in a sucking anticipation, I knock on the door three times, suspended in baited breath for confirmation that I am indeed, still alive, that I exist.

But there is no answer. I am not home.

Description
'Vacancies...'

The moon reflects off of the canopy at night, illuminated like a halo that frames the stars, I walk, the ground moist beneath my feet, a sodden and anorexic dirt track stormed with jade velveteen moss and the surreptitious creeping of a myriad of toadstools. A pimpled frog sits upon my shoulder, croaking in my ears. ‘No one’s there’, it wheezes with nicotine lungs as the wind surges through the trees, the rustle of paper leaves whistle through my head, and I am not really listening, for the finding of a bundle of cloven hooves tied neatly with a silk bow before me. I hang them at my waist and keep walking, a mutiny hanging in the air as if the forest were to betray and swallow me whole.

I reach a clearing through the dewy brush where an old well erupts through the foliage like a stone tongue, an alabaster stag lays, his head pressed against the cold slab, I bend down to touch it and realise that he is missing his feet. I untie the severed heels from my belt and with needle and thread I sew them to his sanguine stubs, incontinently, they turn to hands before my eyes, and the pale deer wriggles rosy fingers audaciously through the earth like blushing roots. With a penetrating rumble it heaves itself upright, his great skull pushed to mine and eyes of fierce garnet boring into my mind like I were but an insect beneath a burning lens. I feel a swift rush of sandpaper across my cheek as he drags his tongue over my face, and then he is gone, a music box in his impression, with a dancing cat twirling to a lullaby I can’t quite make out while the rasp of the frog echoes in my ear; ‘No one’s there’ as I climb inside and close the door.

I climb down from the dark and find myself at a crossroads in the flora, fireflies swim through the air like phosphorescent fish, swarming like locusts around a small black dog, leashed to a squirming mandragora stem and grappling with the dirt. ‘You’ll die’ I say, my words stolen by the hush of towering trees. ‘You don’t know the meaning’, it replies on coarse throat, tugging at the root until it bursts from the ground, screaming like death through every part of me, and just like that, the animal collapses, and with dying breath blows itself away, burnt ash and bone dust scattering on the ground until nothing but a toe remains. The mandragora, now free, picks the dead dogs toe from the ground, devours the morsel and flees through the bushes. I take the leash from the floor and open a floorboard door, my amphibious acquaintance in my ear, ‘No one’s there’.

There’s a house now, in the distance, the porch light glimmering through a silhouette, I tread in slow motion on the sinking dirt, my shoes filling with mud and by the time I reach the gate it’s like I’m wading through tar, my lungs are heavy with fatigue and I have blood on my dress. The once incessant frog now lies limp in the crevice of my collar bone, sleeping and snoring quietly. I think for a moment I prefer it this way.

As I open the gate I become aware that the house before me is in fact my own, I hear the roses greet me from their beds and the familiar creaking of wooden deck as I approach the door. There is a lamp light shining through the window and the sweet scent of honey sticking in the balmy night air, the porch has been overgrown by weeds, they sting my hands as I pull them from the door, revealing a bronze, lion-headed door knocker with a ring through its swollen mandible. My deepest inhalation held in a sucking anticipation, I knock on the door three times, suspended in baited breath for confirmation that I am indeed, still alive, that I exist.

But there is no answer. I am not home.