like the moon, we borrow our light; chantale

[chantale]

my corrupt nature is empty of grace; bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. She was born as all horses were, in a body meant as prey. And my corpse masterpiece was prey, in a way – back with Herd, back with Prince Charming, as she was shaped into a mold that could not contain her even then. (She left them bloody, smoke and salted earth behind her.) But the years and whatever macabre, deathlike magic bred into her worked their magic, smoothed her plastic-clean, shaped her. The heart slowed, the blood slowed, the mind went. (The mind may have already been gone.) What’s left is a thing in limbo, dead but not. What’s left is a thing with a cunning predator’s smile. Wait the shadow thing orders, so she obeys. She watches idly as a portal opens and the woman steps into it, disappears from sight. There is a noise in the distance, sounds of a scuffle. She knows the tune well, and smiles to herself. She looks, for all the world, quite peaceful. And then the creature is before her again, a wolf clenched in her teeth. The body is thrown at her feet and my corpse queen is reminded of another acolyte, a mare with a heart in her mouth. Blink, and the memory is gone. She looks down and watches the creature’s flesh bubble like a hot spring. Curious. She wonders what the poison might do to her, and for a moment she salivates at the idea. “Good,” she says, finally, voice a purr, “Anastasia is very good at that.” chantale how original a sin.