PHOTO PROMPT © Karen Rawson
We called it the Monastery.
It hung over the low field, a precipitous slope of scrubby saplings shadowing the churned cattle way.
We’d pass below the sickly trees, tuck-tucking at Gideon the bull, calming his twitching flank with soft palms.
Something about the broken-tooth ruins made it impossible not to look, impossible to keep looking.
A glimpse of the carvings told me no holy man ever passed there – grinning, malformed beasts, grotesque imps twisted into impossible acts … My memory blanks the worst.
Some wise soul destroyed that place. Still its evil spirit survived to watch us all.