“Don’t follow the lights” by Brian Hugenbruch

A man wanders
halfway into a forest.
A cold wind exits.

The random dance of twee lights seen through trees enticing those who see them sideways; it’s just a moment, just a quick look, just a peek against the thundering rush of better judgment, pushed aside by need. What alights in the distance? In the heart it’s magic, it’s grace, it’s gold silver bluish-white energy that brings delight, and eyes transfixed by darting fae can pay no heed to the roots that grab, the holes unnoticed that break and twist the ankles. Pain and fear soon rear up through that fog of desperate greed. A horde of vicious wisps that beam toward their prey, their tiny teeth swarm over cloth and skin until the only remnant is a skeleton, half-buried, staring toward that last enticing light, arm covering an eye socket but partially, who even in its living agony was too entranced to look away.

Some fireflies
feast upon the footsteps
of those that follow

Brian Hugenbruch is the author of over fifty speculative short stories and poems. He lives in Upstate New York with his wife and their daughter, and he spends most of his time trying to explain quantum cryptography to other nerds. His poetry has appeared in Strange Horizons, Dreams & Nightmares, Haven Speculative, and is forthcoming in Analog. You can find him online at the-lettersea.com and on social media under that same handle. No, he’s not certain how to say his last name either.