Ungodly Hour

He stood to his neck in the freezing lake, until red Aldebaran rose over the trees to wink at him, and the Pleiades hung dancing in the fog.

With shivering hands he raised the old vase, and cried a test to the fat yellow moon.

“Who calls? Who calls, at this ungodly hour?”

It bent the light as he lowered it to the water, stole it and twisted it into strange, searing shapes. When it was full he upended it over his quivering lips.

It tasted brackish, foul. Of slime, of decay. Of rotten hands, grasping at stones, yellow bones slipping through coiling weeds.

“You call, lost one,” his own throat croaked back at him, “And I answer.”

Thomas Boyle

(Prompts: Lake, Vase, ‘Ungodly Hour’ – 2/2/17)

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