A Place Called Fear

I hear incomplete footsteps. One foot touches the ground in that silent way only a padded shoe can touch; and then the other does not come. I strain and wait and strain and still, it does not come. In the distance, the bells tend to knell in ways that do not tend to tell a tolled tale. Incomplete. But still, the sounds reach us and make sense. We see doom and then wait to die.

The steps and feet retreat - at least for a year and a day. And just when we rest on our laurels, the distant bells start to warm their knells; and then, we know that the hunger has started again. It wants us. It wants to eat. It needs to feed and it has to be fed. From its hibernation while it fed on others, it has returned for us; our year and a day is up.

The footsteps; incomplete and otherwise have started to take their toll in our heads; eating and feeding and fearing. And in the middle of the awning, just when we think its safe to come out and play, we are struck - with a thought - and just like that, we are back into a place called fear.