100 words of creepiness
Here's a little poem for the season called "First Sin." Original work; please respect.
"Stage four cancer," said the man.
"Inoperable." He held her hand
and said again, "I'm sorry, ma'am.
Death is now an issue."
She'd done her best to shed a tear
but none came forth. Instead the fear
she'd held so long turned to a leer,
hidden behind a tissue.
Followed by her stern-faced mate,
she'd travelled back to home to sate
a terrible hunger that wouldn't wait.
Afterward a grave to dig.
"You've a wicked soul," her mate did chide.
"So you've said a million times,"
she replied. "My first sin is tonight."
And she dined upon long pig.
"Stage four cancer," said the man.
"Inoperable." He held her hand
and said again, "I'm sorry, ma'am.
Death is now an issue."
She'd done her best to shed a tear
but none came forth. Instead the fear
she'd held so long turned to a leer,
hidden behind a tissue.
Followed by her stern-faced mate,
she'd travelled back to home to sate
a terrible hunger that wouldn't wait.
Afterward a grave to dig.
"You've a wicked soul," her mate did chide.
"So you've said a million times,"
she replied. "My first sin is tonight."
And she dined upon long pig.