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The voices of my kin rise, a soft echo over the waves. Faint, to your ears, yet clear enough that you yearn to hear more.

It is a dark irony that if you and your ilk had been even a fraction so welcoming or open-minded the first time you encountered us, we would not be here now, leading you to your doom.

It has been a long time since a human has dared to visit us, longer still since one came with no motive but curiosity and a desire to know. We will indulge you, for now, without fear or favour. 

Do not mistake indulgence for kindness; some of my kin are not so discriminating, and I have waited long to tell my story. You may not be so fortunate next time.


We have gone by many names over the years, merfolk, sirens and sea-spirits being only the most common. Some legends say that we originated from a goddess who drowned herself over a lost love, others that we were cursed to this fate, or that we are merely capricious spirits of nature. Some call us monsters, some insist that we are protectors.

All tragic stories, containing a small grain of truth,yet none quite so tragic as our true origins.


We are the forsaken ones, murdered over events that were never our fault, by those whose suspicion or greed became our death warrant.

We number mostly women, though there are some men amount us, for ignorance and hatred born of fear does not discriminate in its victims. They are merely less inclined to see it coming, sure that it will never happen to them.

But I digress. You came here seeking answers, and I am of a mind to give them to you. You may not thank me for doing so, once you hear them.


I was born and raised on the waves, the daughter of a fisherman who could not afford to go short handed because his sons were inclined to seasickness. He ignored the whispers that it was unnatural, unlucky, to have a woman on the water, and shielded me from hearing them myself.

My brother, when our father went the way of the old, was not of a similar mindset. He had very set ideas of where a woman belonged, and cared little that I did not share them.

The sea was my first love, the only spouse I would ever need or desire. Rather than give her up, I disguised myself, running away to become a sailor. It was not a glamorous life, but I was happier than I would have been in any other.

Of course, it could not last forever. Sailors of that time were more of my brother’s mind than my father’s, and it only takes one unconscious visit to the ship’s doctor for the secret to come out.

It was my ill-fortune that my identity came to light less than a day before we sailed into a hurricane, and superstitious fear won over calm logic. I was a woman on board a ship, and an easy scapegoat for whatever misfortune befell us.

That the Sea was not such a jealous mistress, and that I had sailed with them for over five years without such an incident, was ignored.

I heard the faint song that you do now, and hoped that I would survive long enough to see the faithless crewmates who condemned me share my fate.

They threw me overboard, forgetting that any sensible sailor learns how to swim before their first voyage. Unfortunately, one sharp-eyed fellow noticed me clinging to a line, so they fished me out, trussed me like a goose, and tried again.


My body was bound, but my spirit was not, and I refused to die in such a way. I struggled as I sank, praying to and God or spirit who was inclined to listen, that my last memory of the Sea would not be as the unwitting cause of my death.

The Sea was the one who answered. The water I breathed ceased to choke me, and the ropes that bound my legs fell away as they changed into a long tail, slender and sinuous. Those who I now call my kin found me, untying the ropes around my upper body, their voices holding the husky note I recognised from seafarers who had survived a long gale, days of breathing as much seawater as air. 

I imagine you know it as well, and can hear it in my voice, though I barely notice it now, or the sting in my throat from the salt and brine that I breathe through my gills.


Not all of us who meet such a fate become sea-spirits, of course.

Those who cast themselves into the waves out of despair or guilt become merely seafoam, largely inconsequential, but still part of the sea, for she holds many treasures, even if they did not see that worth in themselves.

The ones who sacrificed themselves willingly, or found it within their hearts to forgive their killers, they become dolphins or albatross, playful or patient, protectors and guides to those that love the sea as they did, and who they deem worthy of aid.

It is only we, who died with anger in our hearts and vengeance on our minds, who refused to relinquish ourselves and our love for the sea, who transform into merfolk. 

We are the victims of superstition, whether women thought to be bad luck or men who did something that made their fellows believe them cursed.

There are fewer of us now, as the world becomes wiser and “falling overboard” is harder and less easily dismissed. I hope there will be even less, once you have told our story.

Some of my kin have taken on new forms, satisfied with the death of their murderers and disinclined to punish those who have done them no wrong.

Perhaps one day I will join them, or perhaps the day will come when there are no new merfolk, and only I, who love the sea and my memories of her too much to give up, will remain.

 

One can only hope.

 

 

 

Chapter Text

Despite popular opinion, I do not curse every woman who catches my husband’s lustful attention.

Even as a goddess, there are not enough hours in the day for that, and I have better things to do with my time. In truth, I cannot even blame many of them.

Those who were tricked by a disguise, or who never knew that Zeus was anything more than a mortal man who desired them, I do not despise. Those who were coerced, I do not punish, for they have been through enough. My husband has never been very good at hearing or understanding the word ‘no’, after all. 

It is those that knew what they were doing, who cared for nothing but their own pleasure and the rewards they would gain in the brief time that they held my husband’s interest, that I curse. I am the goddess of marriage, and willing infidelity is anathema to me. Other gods have cursed or killed for far less, yet I often seem the only one who is blamed for doing so.

Danae was the exception there, but the poor girl was so starved for company of any kind, and perhaps not aware of which god was visiting, that I counted her as innocent of betrayal. It was not her fault that she would one day bear the child who would doom it’s grandfather, and anger for a wrongdoing is something that I understand.

I made sure that Europa married a good man, after Zeus abandoned her in Crete. I delayed Danae’s forced marriage as long as I could, giving Perseus time to return with the head of Medusa. I cursed Leto and tricked Semele, who made no secret of their affairs. I was not pre-disposed to like Heracles, because Zeus cast out our daughter for distracting him while the birth of his bastard was delayed. Argos was my city, and if anyone was going to interfere with it’s future leadership, that person would be me


In truth, it is my husband who is the target of my anger, but he is the King of the Gods, and to move against him directly is dangerous. I am far from helpless, but I have felt my husband’s wrath before, and am in no hurry to repeat the experience.

There is some part of me that loves him still, despite his betrayals, and continues to hope that each time he claims that it is the last time, that they meant nothing to him, it will eventually be the truth. There is a greater part of me that knows that I was born to be the Queen of the Gods, and that there is currently no-one who would be a better choice, or whom I would trust with the task. I have a responsibility, and cannot abandon it.

Relationships of any kind are built on trust and faith in each other. My rage is not entirely the result of being a woman scorned, but more at the fact that I cannot trust the one whom I should be able to believe above all others. I am angry that he not only betrays his vows, but tries to conceal it from me.

If he admitted to it, perhaps we could work something out to a happier conclusion. We would be far from the first, or the last, union to involve multiple partners, with the knowledge and consent of all parties. 

There are rumours that Poseidon does not begrudge his wife the occasional lover, on the rare occasion that she desires it. Much like gods and mortals, some nymphs have appetites to rival the gods, but others do not. Amphitrite loves her husband, in her own way, but rarely desires to take a lover. As a consequence, they keep the peace in their marriage and she does not act against his lovers or children. 

Hephaestus is married more to his craft than to Aphrodite, and when she is discreet, cares little who she takes to her bed. It is only when she flaunts then to him that he becomes angry. I sometimes wonder if Ares would remain so interested in Aphrodite if it were not for the potential for conflict with his brother.


There have been a few times that Zeus has been intimidated into temporary fidelity, though not all of them made it into legend. After he finished punishing me for my part in the rebellion, he was faithful for almost  a full century, perhaps fearful that Briares would not be around to rescue him next time.

The only other times worthy of note were when I changed my tactics a little, disguising myself and visiting the lover as I did with Semele. Rather then tricking them to their doom, I timed my visits to be shortly before Zeus would arrive.

His expression when he appeared and recognised me, and realised that his wife and his lover were comparing bedroom experiences, was beyond price.

 

 

Chapter Text

So, I reached the point (nearly 24k words) where I had enough Tumblr-inspired short stories to turn them into an anthology. The stories originally in this work, along with several others, can now be found at:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1537699113/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1479032023&sr=1-1

A collection of short stories, monologues and poems, at least half of them inspired by Tumblr Writing Prompts, you wonderful, twisted enablers.

The kindle version will be available in a few days.

Chapter Text

 

The protector did not have a name.

They had been given many names, usually whatever had taken their charge’s fancy at the time. Sir Bearington, The Majestic Teddy, Mr Snuggles, My Bear… the list went on.

He did not mind, for names had little bearing on who he was, at the core of his being: a protector of the ‘We Protect Kids From Monsters Association’.

There was one duty; to protect the children they watched over from the monsters in cupboards and under beds, coming to life at night when the monsters came out to hunt. Humans saw his loose stuffing and fading fur as signs of age, but the protector wore his battle scars proudly.

There was one unbreakable rule; that adults must never see them carry out their duty, and could never know the truth.


 

From the moment an exhausted new mother had placed him in the arms of the tiny infant who had become his charge, he had protected her, and she had repaid that protection with an outpouring of love and an odd kind of loyalty, such as a human could give.

Unlike most, the protector’s charge had not given him away or passed him onto another child when she grew older. The protector had stayed with his charge through the years, drenched with her tears when she was bullied and he was the only one she never feared judgement from, clung to for comfort when shifting hormones or surfing the crimson tide became too much, and tucked against her side as a grounding force as she struggled with assignments.

His charge had not needed protecting from monsters when she grew up, monsters losing interest once children passed a certain age. Still, he had stayed, unwilling to abandon his beloved charge while she still needed him. 

He had endured being stuffed in a carry-on when she travelled, unwilling to leave him behind and acted as security when she was scared and in an unfamiliar place. He had watched over her when she fell in love, confidant to her hopes and fears, comforted her when she nursed a broken heart. She had not married, preferring a de facto partnership that lasted for decades, and they had decided against children, but the protector stayed with her throughout all of it. 

Even now, with his charge withering in age, he stayed. She was sick more often, now, and needed him to comfort her, especially when she had to go to the sterile white place, filled with harsh smells and never truly quiet enough for the solitude and silence his charge needed to refresh her energy.

One fool had told her that her emotional need to be alone was all in her head. The protector had bent the rules, placing himself, un-noticed, in exactly the right spot to make the fool trip and spill his coffee on the night round, without enough time to make another cup. No-one threatened to call his charge mentally incompetent simply because she loved him.


 

The protector knew that he would have a new charge, soon. Perhaps his charge’s partner, clinging to a reminder of her until they saw each other again, or perhaps the great-niece who was expecting a child of their own soon. But until that day came, he stayed, faithful and watchful.

One night, the protector came to life. 

Not the watchful awareness that he had maintained for so many years, but springing to life, ready for battle. Something was coming, something he had never faced before, something dangerous and malicious and deadly.

The protector armed himself, not with material objects, but with things so much stronger and more powerful. Years of unconditional love formed his shield, duty and devotion in equal measure were forged into a weapon more potent than any blade. He took up his post, ready to defend his charge from anything that came for her.

He knew the risks. His charge slept lightly these days, constant aches and pains keeping her from the peaceful rest she had once enjoyed. While she was still his ‘kid’, she was also an adult, and could never know the truth of the WPKFMA.

He did not care. She was his kid, and he would protect her.


 

The battle was long and fierce, the monster an unknown that sought the souls of the elderly before death came to claim them. It was loud, loud enough that the protector feared his charge would wake, and draining; the shield of love and blade of devotion beginning to falter by the time the protector stood victorious over his foe.

He turned, ready to slip back under her arm, and froze.

His charges eyes were open, and a figure shrouded in black stood beside her. Her smile was weak, her arms trembling as she reached out to him for what the protecter knew would be the last time. “It’s all right, my brave warrior. You have not failed.”

She had known, the protector realised. She had always known, never truly relinquishing the belief that children clung to, the knowledge that the being they clutched in sleep would protect them. Now she was thanking him in the only way she could, sacrificing herself so that he could continue to do for others what he had once done for her.

He let her draw him into her arms, cradled like the child she never bore, his soft head tucked under her chin, safe in her own protective embrace. 

Her hold grew limp, a sleep from which she would never wake, eternally secure from monsters that would never bother her again, and she slipped away, into a forever-dream where the protector could never follow.


 

In the darkness, triumphant in what would be his most important victory, an old Teddy Bear wept.

 

 

 

Chapter Text

I had always loved the water.

No matter where I lived, there was always water nearby. A lake, a river, an ocean... it didn't matter. I would walk on the shore, and fall asleep to the sound of waves, soft and gentle lapping or wild yet rhythmic booming, and it would colour my dreams. Unlike most children, I never suffered nightmares. If I did, I never remembered them.

As I grew, I began to paint. I took jobs on cruise ships and river boats, so I could stay close to the water, contrasted against different settings, in all of it's mediums, and I ended every day with a sketchbook or an easel, whichever was available. (Some of the crew cabins I stayed in barely fit a bed and a carry-on, never mind art supplies...)

I sold some of my paintings, infusing them with aquatic fantasy; mer-folk, selkies, fantastical beasts from my imagination or from various mythologies, something to appeal to potential buyers. The true paintings, nothing but water and waves and a hint of shoreline, I kept for myself. There was something about them that was too personal, a connection too deep, for me to share.


 

It was hard work, living as on-board customer service, and staff couldn't socialise with the tourists, but there was always the water for company, and that made it all worth it.

One day, we made harbour, and with all the tourists out on a full-day trip, the staff had a half-day to do what we wanted. I took myself off to the nearby cliffs that I had been admiring for the last day, armed with sketchbook and pencils. This particular section of the cliffs was a cove, almost certainly used by smugglers in the past. I wondered if this sketch might turn into two paintings, one of the waves that I loved and one of a moonless night, the smugglers I imagined hauling their cargo.

I pondered on how close to the edge I wanted to sit. It looked stable enough, but the wind was fierce, and one slip was all it would take.

I shrugged and sat down, accepting the risk. There was an angle I wanted to capture that I wouldn't get if I sat further back.

Lost in my sketching, I didn't hear the sound of crumbling rock.


 

The first I knew of my danger was a sudden 'crack', and the feel of falling. I was terrified, and almost angry. I could not die; there were still so many waves and shorelines and rivers and lakes that I had not seen, had yet to paint! I did not want to die, not by way of the water I had spent my life loving!

I braced for a hard, final impact... and felt as though I were being cradled, the arms of thousands acting as one to gentle my landing and save my life.

It felt as though someone whispered in my ear, almost lost beneath the sound of the waves, or perhaps formed by the subdued boom of water meeting land. "Not yet, my love."

Surprise overcame my fear, and I looked around.

The waves I had been sketching had surged together, reaching up to catch me, and now they formed the shape of a body. 

It was like some of the abstract art I had seen, suggesting more than defining, with no way to call it man or woman, their bottom half merged into the waves themselves. I wished I could say something to impress them, but all that came out was a puzzled "Huhwha...?"

The sound of a burbling brook, almost like laughter, came from the being. "How could we destroy one who has loved us so well? One who has kept us so close to their heart?"

I didn't question the statement, unwilling to destroy a miracle formed from my greatest desire by applying logic. "Will I see you again?"

Something like a hand cupped my cheek, and I was drawn closer to the waves. "We can never stay, but we will meet again. That I can promise."

I smiled. "I know, and I will wait."


I had never cared for a lover or life-partner, for the water had claimed my love and devotion from the first time I saw it.

Nothing had changed, other than knowing that it was not one-sided.

 

 

 

Chapter Text

Always read the fine print.

Everyone knows that part of anything to do with contracts. A less well-known piece of advice is ‘always check for spelling errors’. I learned that the hard way.

From the tennant contract where ‘observe and obey rent-dates” was mis-spelled as ‘lent-dates’, and some smart-ass decided to give up paying rent for 40 days, to the payment clause where ‘paid in EFT or Cash’ was auto-corrected to ‘EFT or Cake’, spelling errors have been responsible for all sorts of absurd, awkward and abysmal legal problems.

My typo-related SNAFU wasn’t quite as bad as those, but just because some poor schmuck has it worse doesn’t make other problems invalid. 

‘Abysmal’ is probably the most applicable term for my dilemma, because I signed a contract with a demon.


 

Dumb move, I know. Even the desperate think twice before resorting to something like that.

In my defence, I wasn’t actually expecting anyone to answer my vague wish for help. Besides, being up to your eyebrows in student debt, about to become homeless because even night-shifts at the local gas station have at least a dozen people competing for every open spot, and the friends who had offered to let you couch-surf for a few nights weren’t in much better financial straits than you are, leaves a person pretty desperate. 

Certainly desperate enough to wish that all-powerful higher beings actually existed. I’d even contemplated using my non-existent free time to look for a fairy ring. The fair folk might find my situation amusing enough to take pity, and even if it came with a catch, it would still be a reprieve from my current problems.

Instead, I got a demon.

I reacted about as well as I would to any other unexpected intruder who showed up in the middle of the night when I staggered into the kitchen for a drink of water: I shrieked and threw my sole cooking pot, then sitting in the drying rack at its head. On reflection, a minor concussion might go a long way toward explaining what happened next.

Luckily, the demon had a twisted sense of humour and found it hilarious. They - there was no clear gender, and I wasn’t about to risk asking - offered me what they called the ‘low-fee’ contract. I would get the better-paying job I had applied for, and looked on-track to getting before I turned down the pass that my interviewer made at me, and my rental contract would suddenly have a ‘right-to-buy’ clause, so the last rent payment that I could just barely make would result in my taking ownership.

In exchange, I would have five years before they returned to claim my first-born.

Honestly, there were no down-sides. It would take me more than five years to be in a situation where I could afford to even think about that kind of commitment, let alone afford the IVF treatments. Luckily, neither the contract nor the fine-print said anything about penalties if I didn’t have a child at that point.

My collage degree had included, among other things, modules on contracts and proof-reading. Proof-reading is the important bit here. You go over a document first to see what it says, then a few more times to check for spelling errors, sentence structure, grammar and writing flow, etc.

I went over it once to check for hidden traps or clauses, and to make sure it covered what I had agreed to, then signed it. The demon left me a copy and vanished in a puff of hellfire and brimstone, setting off the smoke alarm in the process.

Fittingly, the contract was the only thing that stayed dry.


 

After turning the alarm off, a change of clothes, setting the wet things out to dry and cleaning up the kitchen, I fell back into my bed, only to be woken up an hour or so later by my ringing phone. Apparently, demons like to get a little bit of their own in my having the ‘good news’ part of a contract be announced at just after 4a.m.

The first was from my landlord, announcing that he would be bringing the transfer of ownership papers around that afternoon, followed by another at 6a.m from the company I had interviewed at, letting me know that a Supervisor had been fired for sexual harassment and with everyone moving one up in the chain of command, there was another job opening for me to take.

Life was looking up.


 

It was just under a year later when I found out the problem.

I had just staggered back in at the end of a long shift that had been one fiasco after another, so of course i look into my kitchen and see the demon I made a bargain with sitting there. They didn’t look angry, or smug, or even the integrating attitude of a used car salesman that they normally used when making deals. If I didn’t know it was absurd, I would have said that they looked unbearably awkward.

I closed the door and pulled out a chair. “I’m pretty sure my contract isn’t due for another four years.”

A scaled hand rubbed over horns, possibly the demon equivalent of running a hand through hair. “Yeah, about that… there was a typo.”

Contract typos were never good, and always caused trouble for someone. At the very least, I’d probably have to renegotiate. “What typo?”

As long as it wasn’t ‘five months’ rather than ‘five years’, I had room to negotiate. The demon looked very close to thumping his head on the table. “The bit about the price you agree to pay.”

How was that enough to make the demon look so uncomfortable? Seeing my obvious confusion, they handed me a page with the relevant paragraph.

Oh.

I put the contract down, wondering if I could claim the typo as a breech of contract on their part. “Well, that’s problematic.”

They rubbed their horns again. “Yeah. Look, it’s still doable. You don’t need to upload it to the internet or anything, or even have to do it ever again afterward. Just your first porn, and we can forget that this ever happened.”

It wasn’t quite that simple. “Any chance that the contract could be satisfied with a professionally-shot nude? A pin-up?”

The demon shook their head. “No. Since this is kind of on us, we’ll make sure that no-one will ever see it and that it can’t be leaked or hacked, if that helps.”

Damnit. I thumped my own head on the table. “That’s not the issue. I can’t.”

The demon frowned, sitting up. “Can’t or won’t? I know that it’s awkward, but - “
I cut them off. “Can’t. I’m sex-repulsed Asexual. The idea of having sex, much less filming it, makes me physically ill.”

The demon was momentarily side-tracked. “Then how were you planning on producing a first born for our payment?”
I’d been hoping to have the five years pass without managing to conceive, honestly, but I had a back-up plan. “I’d planned on IVF, but I need to save up the money first, and there’s no guarantee it would take on the first try.”

The demon frowned. “Damn. I keep telling the contract department that we need to factor in clauses for cases of alternate sexuality. Let me think on this, and I’ll try to find a compromise. You’re sure that you’re sex-repulsed. Not grey-A, or ‘don’t mind it as a recreational activity’-Ace? Demi-sexual, even?”

He didn’t sound particularly hopeful, and I felt a strange surge of sympathy. “I’m afraid not. Black stripe all the way.”

He groaned, mystic runes starting to glow beneath him. “Right. I’ll keep you updated.”

He vanished, leaving me alone. Despite the situation, I couldn’t help smiling a little. Who would have figured that a literal demon from Hell was more progressive than the average Conservative?


 

I was nearly finished making dinner when there was another hellish visitation. Turning around, I squeaked and dropped the pot I’d been filling with water.
The thing most frequently made people question my Asexuality was that I was ok talking about sex as a theory, and had no problem finding people visually attractive. It was like looking at statues in a museum; I could admire the craftsmanship without wanting to do anything about it. This was a better-endowed Apollo, and a living Galatea, both very scantily clad, and watching me with great interest. I wanted to hide under my bed. My parents raised me polite, though, so I tried to smile. “Hi. Mind if I ask who you are and what you’re doing here?”

The male-looking one propped his chin on his fist, giving me a dazzling smile. “Hopefully seducing you, gorgeous.”
Why did attractive guys always manage to ruin the scenery by opening their mouthes? I pulled the sheperd’s pie out of the oven and pulled out three plates. Did demons still eat food? Oh, well, no harm in offering. “Didn’t the demon I bargained with pass on the fact that I wasn’t into sex? Like, at all.” 

The female-looking one offered a smile of gentle understanding that made my heart flutter. I had a weakness for people I could connect with emotionally. “He did, but the Mid-Boss wants to have the contract completed, and sent us to make absolutely sure that you weren’t just lying to get out of it.”

That was fair enough. “But why are there two of you?”

The male one shrugged, having dropped the ‘wannabe-seducer’ attitude as he dug into the plate in front of him. “She is a Succubus, I’m an Incubus. The higher-ups wanted to cover all the bases, as it were.”

The female one nodded in agreement. “We can call up a few more, if you’re into orgies. Whatever kink takes your fancy, really. Shapeshifting is an option, too, if you’re into fantasy or sci-fi.”

If my face got any redder, I was going to catch on fire. Frantically, I scanned through the memories of when a cousin had tried to ‘fix’ me by spamming me with pornographic images, trying to think of a solution. “None of the above, actually. Look, I have to give the demon my first porn. How active of a participant do I have to be?”

The female one sighed. “That wasn’t specified. As long as we don’t get punished for failure, I’m open to suggestions for wiggle-room.”

That was a relief. “So, my family went through this stretch where they thought I could be cured if they just found the right kink or right guy, so I wouldn’t up learning far more than I ever wanted about the adult industry.”
The male one leaned forward, a mischievous smile on his face that was far more attractive than the seductive smirk. “I’m always open to frustrating the higher-ups. Go on.”

Maybe he wasn’t so bad, after all. “Exhibitionism and role-play. You tie me to a chair, or something, and I play a captive audience while you seduce each other.”

He beamed. “Perfect. I don’t do reluctant partners. Are you sure we need to tie you up?”

I smiled back. “Put it this way, me being tied to a chair is the only way we’re getting through this without me doing a runner, and sitting through it should cause more than enough anguish and suffering to satisfy your bosses.”

The female one draped an arm around my shoulders. “Whatever you like. Do you mind if we visit occasionally afterward? You’ve got good ideas, and I love your pie.”

I beamed, compliments for something I’d done, rather than my looks, were so much more effective. “Anytime. Just warn me in advance so I don’t throw anything at you.”

 

 

Chapter Text

 

A figure crept through a darkened wood

A life cut short can never grow old

Clothed in black from shoelace to hood

The dead do not feel the cold

 

Behind them they dragged a wrapped body so still

A life cut short can never grow old

Dead for no reason but for their killer’s will

The dead do not feel the cold

 

They came to a lake, the killer and slain

A life cut short can never grow old

No body or witness means none to point or blame

The dead do not feel the cold

 

The body sank down with barely a splash

A life cut short can never grow old

But the quietest noise make the killer’s breath catch

The dead do not feel the cold

 

Another was there, with a corpse of their own

A life cut short can never grow old

Another dead body, flesh, blood and bone

The dead do not feel the cold

 

Their eyes met in darkness, as black as their hears

A life cut short can never grow old

Should they silence a witness, or simply depart>

The dead do not feel the cold

 

“I’ve no quarrel with you, if silent you’ll stay.”

A life cut short can never grow old

“Forget what you saw, and we’ll both walk away.”

The dead do not feel the cold

 

A nod and a wink, and they went on their way

A life cut short can never grow old

Another name on their list, to hunt the next day

The dead do not feel the cold

 

Take heed of this lesson, and you may yet thrive

A life cut short can never grow old

Two can keep a secret, if only one is alive

The dead do not feel the cold.

 

 

Chapter Text

The full, published collections can be found here:

The Lost Collection

The Temporarily Misplaced Collection

The Writing Prompt Collection

Enjoy!