Monday, 1 September 2014


by Laura Davy

At midnight they took her from her bed, asleep and unaware. They wore robes and smelled of smoky incense. She used her fingernails like claws, blooding three of them as they tied her to an oak tree.

She cried as they poured bitter liquid into her mouth and onto the roots below. She spit and cursed, but she swallowed too.

She screamed out, "Why?"

Their silence was her only answer.

They watched the tree's bark slowly inching across her skin, itching more than it hurt.

After three days they departed, leaving behind a tree blemished only by blinking blue eyes.

Author bio: Laura Davy lives in California with her husband and two cats. She has been previously published in Apex Magazine, Nth Degree and Plasma Frequency Magazine. You can learn more about her at

Eyes is part of 101 Fiction issue 5.

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