Shadow Takes ShapeA Chapter by Cherrie Palmer
“How long were you a tree?” the boy asked, as Willow inserted the skeleton key.
“Since your Momma was a baby.” “Wow,” He said emphatically, “that is a long time.” “Not to a tree,” she said rubbing a hip, “but to my old bones it feels like a very long time. Your days on earth are about to change. Time spent with the mural is deceptive. Our family has always been realm-watchers. We maintain the doors between, and now it is your turn. You will maintain the mural. You may even change its overall persona. It is our connection to each world. The gateways to the seasons and beyond.” “Beyond what?” he asked. “Well, we will worry about that later on,” she said and swung open the attic door. “Uhhh,” Both inhaled sharply. A vast wall of blackness consumed the hallway. Willow slammed the door shut. “Go look out the window?” she commanded. James ran over to the window, “nothing, I see nothing. Man, that’s got ‘a be bad,” he yelled. A small bulge of black protruded from the keyhole. Without a second thought she placed the key in the hole pushing out the Darken. With ease it changed its tactic and wafted under the door. “Quick, use the webbing to block the mist,” she said, and he did. Willow walked over to the chest and James followed. She removed a rag and the Klen-strip spirits. Then began studying the murals. In the top corner of the Autumn painting was a patch of mold. “Here is your Darken. This is what happens if the mural is not tended to.” Willow dabbed the cleaner on the rag and removed most of it. "Why does the chest always has something different in it? " "Not to sound funny but it is your 'hope chest' giving you what you need. Now, be a dear, and help me reach that spot in the corner." Not matter how hard she scrubbed the one spot persisted. They glanced out the window where Bernice could now be seen. The little squirrel peered in observing them. “So, you want a horse, do you?” She asked. “Well grab a charcoal pen and let’s get started.” James had always been good at sketching, but those sparkles on his hands began to shine, and his hand moved with ease. He completely encased the mold in a sketch of a winged black horse. He added a hackamore hoping this would help him ride the brut. “I dub thee, Brutus King of the Brumbies.” “King?” she asked. He nodded. “I guess this means you will be adding more horses?” “Absolutely,” the boy said. “Wings?” She inquired as he smiled. “Well let’s see if Brutus did the trick,” and as they reopened the door the stairwell awaited, and they quickly went to the room where his parents were sleeping. © 2022 Cherrie PalmerReviews
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6 Reviews Added on April 29, 2022 Last Updated on May 10, 2022 AuthorCherrie PalmerSpringfield , MOAboutI am a published poet and love poetry. After a lifetime of country living, I'm making a move back to town. I find my surroundings a great inspiration to me. I also have two books on Amazon Kindle: .. more..Writing
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