I finally found the vile creature that took my son.
Her coffin, I lay open under the pale moonlight.
Her serene countenance belies the pitiless temptress within.
Her youthful visage hides centuries of murder.
North winds breathe a cold gale.
But I tremble in rage.
This wooden dagger unleashed.
My grip tightens.
No hesitation.
Death.
This short story originally appeared in Paperbag Writes.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
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