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A Barren Pricket


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A Barren Pricket
By Henry Penton

 

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Akin to festering wounds, I had brooded, but now that diseased itch desired nothing more but to excoriate.

Below that waning moon my prowl began. My teeth, like beastial fangs, did taint the brackish eve.

 

I forget not the dreary night on which her grip beset me, her thighs bringing a feverish sweat to my brow.

My mind was mercurial, misdirected by even a sedentary glance.

 

Then she uprooted me, thrust me onto that ashen bed, near dismal walls and a dusty pricket

that was left uncapped and barren. She bestowed upon me two presents that night.

A boxy print that her face twisted upon and this gruesome pungent pox that plagues my soul.

 

As the blustery wind bellowed down the street, devoid of any others, a gloom fell over her path.

I shadowed her, I fixed my eyes upon her locks which appeared as darkened as crows’ feathers.
 

As the midnight hour grew nearer I jolted with such inscrutable silence to the door, no resistance did I find.

With each step the floor boards could find reason to betray me, but God found me innocent of any contempt.

 

There! There she laid, like a revolting, sinister evil in a deep slumber.

And there! Beside her rested the flaxen hair of another, another wasted man with but a single night with Iblees’ wench.

 

The room teemed with silence as I perched above them, pricket in hand.

Yet I stood, and let a lull rest there, until the stroke of the clock brought my transgressions

of mind into the surge of that downward pricket.

 

When the men entered they found me asleep, on either side the corpses.

The putrid smell of death scared them, it assured me.

No longer could a carcass pervert men’s perversions.

 

They say I’ll die for this, yet I already have.

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Anne Adelheid, while out in the town of Providence, happened to pick up a copy of the Short. The lofty teen year old ran her fingers over the cover of the short. She was sure to take it back to her home, and possibly coax her sister out of the tower.

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