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.
