A dead limb hung precariously outside Rebecca’s window. Despite the bitter cold and driving snow, she’d opened the window.

She rocked the #cradle, staring into the eyes of an infant son. The offspring was both familiar and familial.

The dead branch snapped and gave way, and she sang, without joy or remorse.

“Down will come baby, cradle and all.”

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Were my soul less trampled upon…

I might stand up and be counted.
I might raise my voice in the void and listen to the infinite nothings being whispered.
I might fight the tears that well up so far down in my minds eyes that they can never reach the surface.
I might answer a call to arms, bare teeth, and cry out at the wilderness; paint a desert so barren that the actions of its people will never bear fruit.

So please, kick me while I’m down.
#horror365 #souless #horror #writing #grrmf

Every word you spoke lacked #substance. Even more so now that you’re dead. You babble incessantly about how I've wronged you, and even my pigs won't sup upon your corpse.

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A barred #owl cried out, “Who cooks for you! Who cooks for you!”

No one, he thought. Not any more anyways. He dabbed the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin. That was the last morsel of her.

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She woke up, her legs bound to a barstool, the bite of rope on her ankles and thighs. She tried to scream, but the sound was muffled by the funnel in her mouth, strapped tightly in place.

She could only vaguely recall the bartender like stills of an extra in a film.

He pulled a bottle from below the bar and poured a shot. Her eyes opened wide—the white bottle, that chlorine smell.

"Last call," he said.

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Being in the employ of hell is often conflated with having sold one's own soul. It confounds many that—as a #snare for acquisition of the souls of others—I may retain my own.

And never have I lived in fear of damnation. For is our Lord not the same who made a saint of Augustine? And did that saint not write, "grant me chastity and temperance, but not yet?

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