She, by Dan Mader (posted with permission)

After seeing my earlier poem, Erin responded with one of her own, and then posted a call to flash fiction or poetry responses. Those will be posted separately, so they don’t get lost.


Cold, the wet pressed against her cheek – fevered. Somewhere,they were waiting. Somewhere there was warmth, not the suck of jealous stone, aching for some beauty – light in the omnipresent darkness. 

They would not come. She would live the rest of her days in a grim desolation, but sure that there was hope. The hope would be her sleeve-tucked ace, and she would play it when the time came. 

Soon, there would be whispers. She did not question, she was beyond questioning, two wills inside her, fighting, waiting for the taste of blood.

About suzanawylie

Suzana Wylie is the not-very-pseudo pseudonym of Susan Wylie Wilson, because let's face it, there are lots of Susan Wilsons around, and as an author, I want readers to find ME and not the bazillions of others. I've been writing all my life - since I learned to hold a pencil anyway - and can't NOT write. Other people have to breathe to live; I have to write.
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