Once, in my youth, I met the most beautiful woman in the heart of the woods; a sorcerous.
Hair so black it devoured the sunlight. Fire behind her eyes, fierce, barely human.
Ageless, timeless, not a wrinkle on her face.
In her expression a wisdom, a mocking, an old woman.
Silken gown. Medieval queen. And her eyes. Oh, those eyes.
Crisp morning, advent of spring. Moist air. Bluebells.
She was leaning against a tree in the centre of a crop of daffodils.
Flowers clutched to chest. Pale sunlight. Strange patterns dancing on her face.
I was smitten instantaneously.
Sat on a log, a lover’s embrace. The backdrop slipped away.
Colours melting, running off the page. A blank space of sour creation.
Blank. A puppet. I looked at her.
Her eyes danced with fire. Certainty. An entire backdrop.
Her eyes had stolen the colour from the world.
She lent towards my face as though to kiss me. Peppermint breath tickling my ear.
I could feel every hair on her arm.
Slender white hand, reaching into my skull, withdrew my eyes like two glacé cherries from the jar.
Murky cherry juice. Tears. Blank. Scarred. Blinded.
I should never again see her face, never again look into those eyes.
My body began to decay. Skin wrinkled. An old man.
A terrifying world as black as her hair that devoured the sunlight.
Collage by Iona Sheppard LAU Ba Hons Viscom .
Written response by Jasmine Disdale LAU Ba Hons Creative Writing