The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
by Christina Sng
She lays herself onto the ground.
On her pale young face, a painful frown.
She blinks away her gathering tears,
Reminding herself the things at stake.
Her parents held with guns to their heads,
Shot point blank if the trade isn’t made.
So she waits, brave but afraid
Till the monster looms, tall and great.
He picks her up with his giant claw,
Pops her in his mouth, eating her raw.
Before he bites down, she pulls out a gun,
Shoots him right through his thick bony skull.
He falls down heavily onto the ground.
She crawls out, looking cautiously around.
The townsfolk have fled, her parents
Dead, gun shots to their heads.
She screams out loud in a primal rage.
The resonance snaps all of their necks.
She sets fire to that hateful world.
The old cottages burn, slowly unfurl.
She walks away, down an unknown road
In search for a new place she can call home.
Fiction © Copyright Christina Sng
Image courtesy of Nina D’Arcangela
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com
More from Christina Sng:
A Collection of Nightmares
Hold your screams and enter a world of seasonal creatures, dreams of bones, and confessions modeled from open eyes and endless insomnia. Christina Sng’s A Collection of Nightmares is a poetic feast of sleeplessness and shadows, an exquisite exhibition of fear and things better left unsaid. Here are ramblings at the end of the world and a path that leads to a thousand paper cuts at the hands of a skin carver. There are crawlspace whispers, and fresh sheets gently washed with sacrifice and poison, and if you’re careful in this ghost month, these poems will call upon the succubus to tend to your flesh wounds and scars.
These nightmares are sweeping fantasies that electrocute the senses as much as they dull the ache of loneliness by showing you what’s hiding under your bed, in the back of your closet, and inside your head. Sng’s poems dissect and flower, her autopsies are delicate blooms dressed with blood and syntax. Her words are charcoal and cotton, safe yet dressed in an executioner’s garb.
You’ve already made your bed.
The nightmares you have now will not be kind.
And you have no one to blame but yourself.
Dark and deadly. A wonderful poem.