He heard them.
They were coming
but he couldn’t run.
The Earth spurted blood
black birds circled in foreboding,
this farm is a prison and he’s its convict.
In a bright panorama,
he saw horrific things,
things that jarred his senses in an unspeakable way
The beaten and the burnt,
the hung and the torn,
the shackled and the maimed.
The tears, the gore,
and the stench of death filled his nostrils,
it clung to his skin and seeped into his bones.
©
Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
For Scene 1 – check this link
a cooking pot and twisted tales 