Reborn From Hell
A/N: Hi, guys. This is just a little description of the image (see "book cover") we were asked to describe during creative writing class in English at school. This is just my interpretation of what I see in the image. I do not know if it is in anyway accurate to the scene it was taken from, so please excuse me if it isn't. And, in case it isn't already obvious, none of this belongs to me. It's all Shakespeare's; what an inspiration that man is.
As the battle commences around them, the usually robust Macbeth and his trusty acquaintance find themselves transfixed by the sight held before them. They're completely oblivious to the screams of bloodshed and tears ringing like alarm bells into the distant night sky. To everybody else, fear and anguish has taken over their entire bodies. They are no longer in control; they are fighting for their lives. Even the shrills of distress from innocent battle horses caught up in the cross-fire do not awaken Macbeth and Banquo from their cryptic trance. They are mesmerised; time has stood still. The vulgar taste of rotten corpses lingers through the thick air, causing any living creature within the battleground to breathe in the metallic tang of death. The musty leaves withering away on the decaying ground below give off an uncanny stench, strong enough to overpower any other. This is a no man's land.
The ghostly figures haunt around the battleground effortlessly, leaving those on-looking reeling in their wake. Beckoning shoulders take hold of the witches features, giving them power over the petty humans below - domination over those who thought death was the only way out. It seems they were wrong. As the witches tread closer and closer towards Macbeth and Banquo, they open their mouths to speak words of protest, but find themselves paralysed. The atmosphere is spooky, if not tense. Uncertainty lingers in the air like a bad smell – both figuratively and literally.
The witches savour the bittersweet aftertaste of victory, subduing their victims with their menacing glow and sharp movements. One false move and you're dead. The luminosity of the devil cannot be put out by the darkness; it's far too powerful to show such weakness. Fire rages through the skies although it cannot be seen. It may be a cold winter's night but no amount of ice can conquer the heat of the witches, reborn from hell and put on earth to kill us all. There really is no escape.
The muted cries for help from Macbeth and Banquo remained unanswered; unspoken. Their fate lies in the hands of witches. Their honourable battle armour might as well be invisible; no amount of metal can protect them now. The witches dance along the dirty field, enchanting all those within viewing distance. Their angelic-type glow is just a façade, hiding the devil spawn buried deep inside their souls. Frail hair sprawls over the creases of the witches' faces, covering their true identity. White clothing shields their brittle bodies. Their limbs like sticks could snap at any given moment. The eerie silence is broken by the cackle of a supernatural being, but how could this situation cause humour? It's anything but funny. The battle has only just begun.