I’m the last priestess of a dying goddess.
Now I hear her moan like an autumn wind high in the lonesome treetops, but she She used to speak to aloud, clear and resonant. Believers came here. We held power, a bright stone in our hands.
We ate well – offerings rolled in – gold and silver from the rich, baskets of fruit, or a white cheese from the poor. It makes me hungry to think of it.
Then a new god came, angry and greedy. His priests called us witches. The people stopped coming here.
One by one, we left or died. I’m the last. I should go, too, but then who would I be? And who would remember the great goddess?
No. I stay. I’ll bless you for a goose egg, an apple. I’ll listen for her voice. I will remember.
It’s prosery night at dVerse.Lillian is hosting, and gives us a quotation from Carl Sandberg’s Jazz Fantasia. dVerse is a poetry site, but once a month we dip our toes into the world of prose – 144 words of flash fiction, containing a quotation from a poem. Today’s line is: moan like an autumn wind high in the lonesome treetops