The first time was at night. In the humid darkness, from the gaping hole that was the shadow of a door; it emerged. The door that lead back to the light now blocked by the presence – no – a physical being. Paralysis.
Dressed in black, hooded cloak. Skull faced. A cliché brought to terrifying conclusion. Carrying a club of darkened wood, it came. It came closer.
The second in stark daylight of normalcy. Walking on a comfortably common street. This time, it came not as pedestrian but equestrian. On horse of grey, cleaver clutched above its head. It rode closer.
Paralysis.
©DJA 2018
From the Compendium of One Hundred Word Stories
The Angry Farmer 