Bleeding Heart

It was an inky, black winter night in Oregon, so shadowy that the darkness enveloped the entirety of the landscape into one menacing, clenching fist. But the town folk couldn’t help but notice the greenish-white cloud hovering in the distance. They began to venture from the warmth and shelter of their homes and into the streets as the cloud drifted closer. Closer, until a form appeared, the silhouette of a man, poised under a street lamp. The street lamp could only struggle to light the way of the road below it, casting only a splash of illumination on the man. But even in the pitiable glow, he emitted a greenish aura. The air became thick with a honeyed fragrance. He stepped forward from his spot under the lamp and their anticipation heightened, yet strangely, their tensions eased. No one dared move. Exceedingly pleasing to the eye he was. Handsome, beautiful and young. His gloved hand tossed back his cloak, so it draped over one shoulder and he removed his black, felt fedora. Then he spoke. Achingly pleasing to the ear, he was. His words were like music. The credulous residents of Bleeding Heart, Oregon gazed upon him in awe and admiration. They were eager to gain for themselves and savor the delicious fruits that were his words; and so, nakedly, they followed him.