By Galen Cunningham
PROMPT—No one noticed ...
No one noticed the kids, for there were too many of their number.
And so, nobody saw the kids as a tree larger than Yggdrasil was ripped from its roots by a merciless wind; by a shadow that was named from God of the scripture, but hissed, rather, like the serpent of olde Eden; landing atop their several worlds, crushing innocence forevermore.
No one noticed the kids because they had work, church, social spheres, interloping thoughts, pressing concerns, anxieties, other children, and things of their own to attend to. Thus, the fallen Angel sewed his iniquities in the children, but no one saw what he was doing. He did with them what he would; things a good Christian child can't even tell another, for fear he'll offend, did this beast teach them.
Because no one noticed the kids, the Devil got away with what he wanted from them. Because they could so be deceived by the false light, by anything that emanates; noticing not that not all that shines is gold--that most of it is sunshine, some of it is pure manufactured puke, and that only sliver of a fraction, to rare to even dream upon, is true.
The kids were not noticed, but they made it to adulthood all the same. A few have been imprisoned; quite a few have gone insane at least once; and suicide has been tried twice by two. There were and are twelve of them, but because of their number, no one saw what had happened to all their joy, their story; their torture.
Their childhood, now mythologized by memory, still lies shattered by that storm that shook the great tree. And that tree, bigger than Yggdrasil, still lies dead; its corpse the one thing reminding us that no one noticed.
Galen Cunningham is a poetry and fiction writer. He has been published or is forthcoming by Literary Yard, Ink In Thirds, Sparks of Calliope, The Creative Webzine, Blue Unicorn, IHRAF, Apocalypse Confidential, and Fresh Words Magazine. Originally from New York (the North Country), Galen lives in Boulder, Colorado.
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