Sunday Photo Fiction: Still Grins On #amwriting #poetry


Thanks to Alistair Forbes for hosting SPF


Skull
A Mixed Bag

Whose skull was this?

Painted with black,

Pagan man with Celtic designs.

Artwork of black paint done with care.

Celtic chains round the chin,

Eyes the deepest black holes,

Examining his head thinking,

Under every living human head,

Lies bones, a skull.

More chains around his forehead,

Celtic chains connecting what?

Fans of decorations highlighting cheeks,

And lines underneath hollow eyes.

Teeth broken, some full and functional.

But some teeth chipped,

Decayed from no tooth brush or paste?

What artist drew on a human skull?

Had he or she no respect for the dead?

But I think this skull we’ve found,

Designed with detail,

In the middle of the Ireland,

Tells a story of a time long ago,

No saying how gentleman skull died.

If he was sacrificed,

Or passed away from illness,

These decorations seem to tell me,

He died a man of a great respect.

I do know he was not so old,

And someone saw value in his bones,

To delicately, with care, design his skull rare.

Perhaps, frightening away the other dead.

Or with an artists eye,

Giving glory and tribute to this man’s remains.

His skull the most valued,

For there sat his brain, where he thought,

Ruled kindly and wisely, a leader,

Before death took his life.

And the painted skull through time,

Still grins on.


©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

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Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers – The Sacrifice


I saw you struggling fervently between the two muscled Celtic warriors. You looked at me, a little blond haired woman with acceptance, or was it the large silver dagger that you knew would kill you.

You looked to be a fine warrior and I blushed like a young girl when you looked at me not showing fear but interest.

You were placed on the alter in front of me and you asked, in my own tongue, for me not to sacrifice you. I was for the first time, moved by a sacrifices pleas. You looked at me as if you saw right through my guise of non chalance.

The dagger rose high into the sky in my hands which shook as my tribe chanted. You lay there, tears pricked me eyes and I aimed for your heart. But then somehow your bound hands were free and you grabbed me and the dagger and held it to my throat.

The crowd gasped. The warriors came forward. I was vital to our community, they wouldn’t let you kill me. But now somehow I am yours and I nuzzle deeper into your arms as we ride away.

Word Count: 176 words


Thanks to Priceless Joy for hosting. Feel free to participate too at her link.