Blood! That what kept coming to mind when I saw one of the prompts ‘Red Grass’ in this week’s list of prompts from Inspiration Monday. I knew it was somewhat predictable but I still went there. Just outside the 250 words.
The patches of red on the grass told me I was in the right place. The overnight rain had begun to wash them away. Each one seemed to stretch out rippled tentacles as though trying to connect with each other. Much like the crowd who’d stood here last night must have held on to one another.
The field was empty now. Everything meticulously tidied away, scrubbed clean, except for the fading splashes of blood. Each one a reminder of a lost life.
I’d spent all of yesterday talking to faceless bureaucrats, pleading with them to let me take her place. All to no avail. I’d gone to the compound where she was being held and stood with the others. Each of us praying for a last-minute reprieve. It never came.
As the lorries drove out we surged forward. Someone shouted a name, but they couldn’t hear us. Then the curfew sirens started and fear drove us back to our homes.
It would have happened at 10.00pm. It always did. 10.00pm every Friday night, 1,000 randomly chosen citizens were driven to that field. Men, women and children, young and old.
At one minute past ten the official state cars would have driven up. Our nations leaders would have climbed out and the feasting orgy would have begun. Those creatures, who now ruled our land, would have torn at the living flesh in front of them until nothing but bloody bones were left.
By 10.30pm it would have been over. The lorries returning and the cleansing process begun. Clearing the table, ready for next week’s feast.