The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Storm Child 
by Christina Sng 

Icicles formed on the foliage.
In days, the blizzard arrived.

.

She was now safe.
Even monsters feared the storm.

.

But she did not.
She was the storm.

.

Shrouded in white,
She vanished into the night

.

Hunting the monsters
Who desecrated her last spring.

.

Their houses were not hard to find.
She had the addresses memorized.

.

While they snored in their beds,
She injected them with a paralytic

.

And watched as they watched her,
In absolute terror this time.

.

She cut off their appendages
And stuffed them into their mouths.

.

Sliced open their necks
Before she tore off their heads

.

Kicking them down the stairs
And out into the snow.

.

Afterwards, she stood in the storm,
Arms outstretched to the skies.

.

She let the snow wash away
The blood and the grief

.

And the crushing loss
Of her babies from what they did.

.

Finally, she felt cleansed,
Her revenge cathartic.

.

This was the only justice
She could ever have, so she took it.

.

Then, the storm ended.
Snowflakes drifted onto her face

.

Gently caressing it
Like her children once did.

.

She smiled and looked up
Into the night sky.

.

There, she saw their sweet faces
Through the parting clouds.

.

Soon, she told her babies.
Soon, Mama will be with you again.

 

Fiction © Copyright Christina Sng
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.
Dream carefully.
You’ve already made your bed.
The nightmares you have now will not be kind.
And you have no one to blame but yourself.

Available on Amazon!