They never call it sacrifice to enter Y’bhag’s cave.
“It’s marriage, honoring your family.” mother priestess said.
My real mother cried when she dressed me in the gown of silk and satin.
This year Y’bhag requested ten virgins.
I am the last to enter the stinking pit they call his palace.
Musicians lead me in my last Bandara as curtains of his cobwebs grace my cheeks.
My heart races as it’s never done before.
I hear the clicking from his pincers.
Coming closer. Closer.
Then all is dark.
In joy I know the harvest is secured for yet another year.
To the image reminds me of cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, and this brought me into a Lovecraft world of hideous monsters, and the ritual sacrifices of girls.
Rochelle selects the picture, and writes the story. Every Wednesday we pretend it’s Friday. We are the Friday Fictioneers.