By Áine Vane

The locals and their mythos and
your own paranoia
have come together to paint
this image of a Beast.

You call It this way
because you are too frightened
to put a softer name to It.

It rests upon a rocky ledge
lounges in the snow when it’s quiet
and we will assume
that this Beast wants you dead:

It wants to crack you open
and take the warmth that resides in you
which, yes, would kill you,

but that is not what It intends. You know
that if you were just as warm as
an inanimate thing, some lifeless facsimile of a God,
It would still tear you to shreds.

Some will call it desire
but we will call it rage
because it is easier for you

to understand what it is for
something to want you dead,
then what it is to be wanted.

There is blood staining the violent white
of the snow this fine evening and
every now and again there is a

crack
loud as a gunshot.
You know what lurks around these parts.
You know what it does to those

not yet consumed
by the sharp embrace of the ice.
You know that

the slashes of green rippling through that
deep abyss tend to draw It out, and you will ignore,
or maybe forget, that It, too,
looks for beauty in this world

every night
coming out to stare at the stars
like a kicked dog.

It knows well what fear is.
It is for this reason
that it persists in its looking.
You’re very alike in that way.

And so tonight, you will lay in the snow
and watch as solar flares foods the sky
and before you it will stand

with blood about its maws
and palms colder
than anything you’ve ever known.
Beast, you claim?

“I will watch over you,” It whispers,
“I will watch you
as you sleep.”

–

Áine Vane (they/them) is an aspiring young writer who comes from a childhood of reading which has molded their life forever. They enjoy the macabre and the beautiful, especially when the two collide. They are currently studying English, Politics and Philosophy in Scotland.