It’s June, wedding season I have been told.

The Bride

The bedraggled bride
Blood stains on virgin white
her head hangs, her hair drips
just like she
was on their
wedding night.
The astonished
Mouth gaping in shocked surprise
His hand shakes, the gun rattles
He can see
murder in her cold, dead
bullet flies
Then another
, and once more
While she advances, unrelenting
His hand goes limp,
the gun hits the floor
Such cold hands
Clutch his
face, pull it near
He is choking at her necrotic stench
Staring in her eyes, paralysed with fear
He hears her
A gurgling whisper, a half-formed rasp
“You may kiss the bride,”
Icy lips touch his,
he hears his
own gasp
Pain flowers in his chest
Bone spliters and
blood explodes
He feels the wrench,
a staggering agony
Then she
rips his heart free and his chest implodes
It beats in her fist
She lifts it to her
rotten maw
And bites deeply as his vision
His last sight, his
blood dripping from her jaw.


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