Tales From The Vultures Beak

Goblin life

I am a goblin.

I hiss at the sun!!!

With care I touch moss…….

And forage for shiny gifts!

What a gosh darn good day.

 

photo by rosycheeks-softheart on tumblr

Moss

Moss grows steadily

Moss moss moss moss moss moss moss

I love touching moss

Feast

 Hazy morning

with ease, the great vulture swoops

above the carnage

 

Despair

My stomach drops, 

As I stare into the forest,

At the pawprints,         

At the burning trees,

At the shower of scornful embers

My claws now black from soot

As I run from disaster.

 

Crow

Icy afternoon

A single, shifty crow flaps

whilst watching the worm

 

I hiked up the sun-dappled mountainside, the morning mist speckled the ferns around me-

the only sounds my boots pressing against the dampened earth and the trickle of the stream next to me. Almost there I thought to myself. 

I took a moment to look around as I stepped into the clearing. It was warmer here. The land was beran of the once dense trees I had walked through to find my way here. The soiled grass was pressed down where many animals had come to take a drink, shortly before my arrival. The thin layer of mud nearly made me slip, leaving me breathless. Slowly, I stepped into the marshy pool, careful not to get any of the mucky water into my boots. I waded across, cautiously avoiding the small hills of dear dung around me.  

Eventually, I made it to the small island in the middle of the pond. Atop it was the young conifer that sprouted through the deer carcass’s ribs I had found a year earlier. I unpacked my lunch, partaking in the PB&J I threw together only a few hours earlier, then turned back to the body. I crouched down, careful not to fall back into the mosquito-larvae-infested muck. 

I marveled at what lay before me, half buried in the clag; the antlers stabbed out at me like claws through fragile flesh. I ran my fingers along the off-white point, gentle so as to not cause any more fractures in the already-chipping horn. Slowly, I began to uproot the skull. After about ten minutes of fighting the earth’s suction on the head, I pulled it from the island, greedily. 

Eventually, the skull came out with a noisy pop, covered in deep scratches. Only after removing it completely from the mud, did I notice the large claws under the skull, bone attached and all. In a single movement I swooped up the claws and put them into my pocket. I stood again, doing a walk around the massive skeleton, observing the scrapes into the mossy ribs, the rodent bites where they had dug into the banquet, months before. Golden mushroom empires sprouted among the gaps in the bones. 

I imagined the fungal kingdom that lay beneath my feet, how the saprophyte embraced those lost to the world, allowing more to grow. I reflected upon the trees, bushes, even the pond scum that I tromped my way through to get here. I shook my head, the thought drifting away with the cool breeze. I made my way back to where the chest cavity had rotted away, I peered inside, pleasantly surprised at what I found. 

A small nest rested on the ground inside. Observing the four to five brown speckled eggs that sat cozily in the feather lined nest, I hardly noticed the mother, until she screeched in my direction. I laughed at the dark bird, and almost backed off, until I noticed the slithering beside me. I turned to see the plump garter snake slithering through a hole in the bones besides me. Before thinking, I gently picked up the snake, waded back across the swamp. Letting it back into the forest. I mumbled “sorry” with slight melancholy, as he slithered away. 

After grabbing my gear, and saying goodbye to the still shrieking mother, I made my way down the mountain, holding neither skull nor ribs but possessing a memory to keep forever.

photo credit: witchys-stuff on tumblr

My name is Velma Higgins and I worked in a haunted specialty shop, stereotypical I know. But it wasn’t haunted in the “traditional” sense. While, yes we had one or two extraordinarily pissed off spirits, real jerks actually, it’s not them that gave us a reputation in our nothing town, it’s the people and other things that visited the shop itself. When I mean us, I mean myself, and my lunch eating coworker Linsey. Don’t get me wrong, Linsey didn’t only eat my lunch, she also smoked questionable substances on the job, but damn if she didn’t make a good batch of brownies.

 Let me explain, I worked night shift half the time, and please don’t ask why a little tourist trap has a night shift, I still don’t know either. This being said, of course I almost dropped the “uranium” vase I was holding when Linsey came in at nearly three in the morning. “Ratpack came by again,” I started dryly as I counted the cash in the register, almost not noticing my coworker let out a visible shiver as she ate my sandwich.

 

 See, Ratpack was an almost unbelievably ancient man, the skin on his face sagged too low and wrinkled so much you’d swear you where looking at a Shar Pei trapped in a man’s body. But what’s off putting isn’t his age, or even his seemingly unblinking eyes, but the fact that the owners have made some kind of deal with him. He brought us boxes of seemingly well, nothing, and in return  we give him the rats we catch behind the refrigerator. I occasionally let my mind drift to what he does with the grotesquely oversized rodents when he walks back into the woods with them, but based on his breath which could make an onion cry, as well as the stained, ever-growing, patchy, fur gown? I don’t think I really want to ask. 

 

“I’ve been having dreams again” Linsey commented as I snapped out of my daydream and finished off the bitter coffee she had picked me up from the gas station around the corner.

 “Your parents disapproval or Jason Voorhees?” I asked half heartedly, ignoring the faint static as I continued dusting off one of the weird ass, human eyed birds some chick had brought in a few days ago, damn taxidermists.

 

“Moths! Giant, biting moths!” she choked out, spitting out whitebread crumbs, I laughed at that, shitty I know but it genuinely surprised me, and I still don’t get surprised much any more.

 “So you can deal with everything here,” I gestured to the ever dusty displays, nearly knocking one of the crystallized skulls over, while she stared into the dimmed shop illuminating the various pieces of obscure taxidermy, bone jewelry and the ever staring army of antique toys that lined the walls, shelves and floor of the building “But not moths?” I asked, my voice crackling with snark. 

 

“You don’t understand!” She looked around nervously as if to see if anyone in our nearly ten mile radius out of town could hear us before leaning in “Moths are a sign of death” she whimpered into the open air.

 I snorted at that “Next you’re gonna tell me the lines on my hand mean my future is grim. Look man, I can put up with Ratpack, the dumpster goblins, and the probably irradiated wildlife we sell, but prophetic dreams is where I draw the line”. I stated dryly, my voice seemingly a distant screech, at that point she grabbed the EVP recorder, wrote a final letter, and walked out. Maybe I should have been nicer, maybe then she wouldn’t have left. I miss her, but I think I just miss working with the  living.

photo credit: softmothslut on tumblr