Tonight my ancestors bellow from shadowed hills highlighted by the yellowed moon's glow. They demand justice be done upon me for my transgressions. My blood will soon run in the chill night. Those entombed specters will have their cravings sated.
Brutal customs shall be honored as age old rites are performed. Bones shall lighten as they lie in the loam with a relief felt by their evicted souls who shall glut themselves on a descendants' failings.
The chains shall circle about me. The doors shall be closed. I shall be torn asunder.
Mourn me not.
....
If only I hadn't said that a Renaissance Faire was of greater importance than churchgoing on a Sunday morn. If only. Then maybe I would be spared the hunger of my past, the feral cravings of the fathers of my blood.
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