Plot Picture Challenge 15

The black skeletons of tree's looked like ghosts in the gathering mist, their forms blurring into each other than fading out completely as the white certain folded over them.

The woman in a red satin gown only looked with mild concern over her shoulder. The white horse bringing her fog of death along the forest path is of little consequence to the red witch.


"Death, my pretty thing" The red woman called to the horse and reached back with one arm. Her red lace draped shawl slipped from her pale slender hand.

The animal, as white as her mist, slowed her pace as she approached the woman's hand. As she reached it, Death nuzzled the hand with all the affection of a loyal pet.


A smile came to the red witches ruby lips. "My darling pet, tonight we ride together," She said, reaching her hand to stroke the soft white of Deaths head and neck.


The witches soft words and Deaths shifting feet on the moist earth were the only sounds to break the stillness. The forest creatures knew better than to venture out into Deaths mist, for if they did, she'd claim them for her own, none living were safe from her, except the red witch.

Death slowly bent her legs and laid herself at the witches feet, welcoming the witch to ride with her. Together they are Red Death.

As Death plodded along her path, the witch laid against her neck and stroked the fur, humming a tune that carried across the stillness to the dim lights of the village. Her melody drawing in the innocent listening ears to Deaths waiting mist.

Whence Red Death has claimed their sacrifice they turned again and stride back beneath the black bone tree's, until another calm night beacons them forth again.

Amidst temporal, hibernating evergreens and pitch of phantom mist, crackles of leaves and crackles of thoughts flickered in and out of perception as fluctuations of concentration. The mind is the one of the few things in the corporeal realm that gives us the ability to experience, to attain freedom of choice and quality of sentience. So what would one do as the veil of actuality and anti-reality becomes carved and fractured like stone under immense, focused pressure? One would find themselves lacking coherence and ability to choose, and inevitably become puppeted by exterior sources. In our case, we find a young woman who lives in the American wilderness become shattered from reality, and instead becomes the catalyst of a deceased, dreamful soul's desire for perfected, fantastic romance within dweary woodlands. But like most stereotypical desires, there's always a twist in plot and in situation...