Mistica Chronicles

Welcome to Issue 47

Kite Winning Entry

The moon beat down, it’s vibrant rays
A lunar sheet of white.
And beneath its kiss, a great oak stood
A child against its might.
And grateful for the rays was she, for ‘twas the darkest night.

“One, two, three four…”
Her voice an echo – soft.
A Frodrinn sweeping past did glance,
It’s great wings kept aloft.
Yet numbers she would only chant, as if to never stop.

“Coming, ready or not.” She said,
Smile gilds the prettiest face,
No longer leant against the trunk,
She backed up from its base.
A giggle leapt from close nearby, demanding start of chase.

From one tree to the next she searched,
Lit only from above,
The giggles increased, when she did turn,
Yet when she neared would hush.
Yet she cared not, as the moon still full, promised no need to rush.
For when the sun rose, the game would end, and all their spirits crush.