by Kimberly Rei
The ancestors knew.
They paid homage to moons, full or new. They left yearling calves and walked away, chins high as the beasts screamed in fear.
They never dared look back.
As generations shifted, manners were forgotten. Worship ceased. Great smears of blood across barn doors, always on a black moon, tried to warn them. They paid no heed to the babbling elders, nor the missing livestock. These things happen.
But when the children went missing, leaves and moss left in their place, they worried. Too late. Too lost. Too much hunger festered.
The Green Lady would have her due.
Kim has taught writing workshops and edited novels for Authors You May Recognize. She has three published short stories and has become a greedy beast, hungry for more. She currently lives in Tampa Bay, Florida with her beautiful, supportive wife and an abundance of gorgeous beaches to explore.