TK JOHNSON

The fountain rests in the heart of the forest, hidden on the folds of great, gnarled tree roots. It has been there for as long as anyone can remember, resting beneath the sweeping, sagging canopy of the lavender woods…and the nymphs with it.

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You've seen them draped in willow branches and waterfalls, in smoke and stone and swallows' tails, in silk and silence. Their voices flit and flutter from the edges of the wilderness, on the wings of sparrows, in the rush and roar of heavy rain. They call to you.

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"Come dance with us."

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The sun sets and paints the pool bloody, casts fat round ripples in red. It reminds you of a hundred frozen faces, stagnant screams, mangled bits of men scattered for the beasts. Of lost, grim graves that stand lonely and unloved in the dark. They are waiting in the woods, to sing and sway and seal your fate.

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"Come dance with us."

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You dare not answer.