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tomgoonery (Tommy.)
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RUNNER-UP: Bluevelvete

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Most gruesome story.

Tyrant of Words
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Poetry Contest

The most gruesome story that comes to your mind. ok: a real one or the product of your imagination.
It can be in the form of a poem  or a short story.

Tyrant of Words
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Dream home

  The house of their dream. A Brownstone on Manhattan's Upper East side. †Small yard and garden inclusive.
 † Just recently on the market. †The owner, a world-class †brain surgeon dead of, as of yet, unknown causes, the widow having shortly thereafter packed her bags and gone back to the Montana of her youth. She left everything behind. †As if she'd been in great hurry to get out of there.
 † Indeed, the dinner table was still elegantly set for two.
 † Mystery or not, Leonard and Bianca were not about to pass on such a wonderful opportunity.
 † The deal was done, they moved in, their belongings placed in storage while they decided what was to be kept of what was in the house, such as the marvelous mahogany dinner table and six chairs. Or, in the living-room, the elegant sofa †and Queen Anne chairs. †Everything in the house was Vintage and Class. † It took them †a while, days, to get used to their new surroundings, clear spaces here and there while making plans to redecorate here, tear down a wall there to make more breathing room.
 † It is while doing this that they decided to bring to the attic †a good deal of the smaller items cluttering the place,
 † Even the attic they found to be cluttered. Used to order and discipline they found a way to make a semblance of order. †And on their path was a †sort of Victorian era travelling trunk, with stamps and stickers from all over the world.
 † No key to be found, but curiosity being what it is, Leonard went to get a crowbar and forced the lock.
 † Opening the trunk they saw the remains of †what at one time could have been cute babies barely a few weeks old.
 † And that is when their Dream House turned to a house of horrors.
Written by robert43041 (Viking)
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Tyrant of Words
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Massacre at El Mozote

This story is a story thatís been shrouded in mystery,
Not told too often as itís often done in history,
Youíd have to dig through journals, electronically,
And find remnants of the cold war erased from memory.
It was in early December back in 1981,
When the Atlacatl Battalion went into the little village,
With counter insurgency tactics to flush out the enemy,
But this event went beyond any sort of pillage.
Guerilla fighters were known to sometimes dress as civilians,
The brilliance of hiding in plain sight like innocent bystanders,
And the right-wing government had gotten assistance,
From Reaganís administration using very repressive standards.
On the tenth of December when the army arrived
They questioned anyone involved or may had contrived,
For those who may have helped or befriended the FMLN,
Had information and intel or they were just as guilty as them.
The following day they were all taken to the town square,
Made to lay face down on the ground during the sordid affair,
Then the men were separated from the women and children,
They were taken to houses, the church and the convent.
Interrogated and tortured then for no reason murdered,
The soldiers released a hell for what they were ordered,
And we can tell this account because of those who escaped,
That some of the women and even little girls were raped.
A woman who hid nearby heard their screams and cries,
ďMama they are killing usĒ some children yelled in demise,
Another person who witnessed said of their horror filled pleas,
They slit their little throats and some were hung from trees.
The rest of the town was then all burned down,
To hide the evidence of this sadistic extermination,
But what can poor farmers and peasants really do?
Against a government bent on communist annihilation.
The next day they went to nearby settlements and towns,
Continuing their diabolical slaughter until the sun went down,
Evil that day had shown its true face then tried to erase,
As their bodies and their homes were all set ablaze.
Journalists dared venture there to write about the genocide
They discovered charred remains and all that they tried to hide.
And the truth eventually saw the light despite all denial,
Yet in the years to come no one was ever brought to trial.
The government issued an apology some three decades later,
But in civil war with civilian deaths they donít find the perpetrators,
It happens everywhere around the world, they call it collateral damage,
But the truth of it is when humanity is lost, men resort to being savage.
In all more than seven hundred lives perished or disappeared,
Some count beyond a thousand, but the exact number is unclear,
Their bodies were never identified, only the names of the lost,
Right versus left, brother against brother, but at what cost?
By no means is this an attempt to get political but itís critical,
That we become aware of these atrocities that are so criminal,
People are stripped of their human rights when governments prey,
Itís happens everywhere, throughout history even to this today.
In the name of freedom and democracy thereís a bit hypocrisy,
When innocent women and little children are killed.
Written by wallyroo92
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Tyrant of Words
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Thank you for sharing and reminding us of the fragility all around us. The fragility of humanity in the first place.  PS:  no wonder many authors have said they prefer the company of their dogs  to that of humans.   Regards, Robert.

Thought Provoker
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The Boneyard

We lay mangled
By some unseen hand
Well, I saw it
I donít know if you did
Did you see your lion?
I turn my head
I canít make eye contact
You walk away
Always stronger than I
No one can see what we carry
No one can see what we hold
It is as dark as the darkest night
I know, clichť right?
But reallyÖ
Some dark nights offer respite
When the lions donít come
But some dark nights just let them come
Whoís really in charge?
I canít raise my arms
I canít move my legs
So, I surely cannot walk away
Or carry myself to another place
As you have
We lay splintered
By some crazed lunatic
Who called it love
Filthy encrusted bone sucking vampires
Who didnít know the difference
Between soft love and harsh love
Or maybe didnít even know
Love at all?
My architecture burns
Pelvis to shoulder
I need to run away from you
Maybe become another,
But I cannot
Do you even know why I cannot?
You drive me deeper into the woods
The woods where lions dwell
You draw them to us
With the cold stone that is your heart
Do you even have a heart?
I am thirsty
We lay dismembered
Well not you, but me
You already walked away
You were so much younger
The rocks from the road hadnít yet
Filled your soul
Drug you down
All the way down
At the bottom where I struggle
And cringe at the sound
Of ripping meat
Within lionís teeth
Red muscles tearing apart
My eyes like headlights
No longer turning on
Do yours turn on?
Probably not
My silhouette isnít even here with me
Neither is my shadow
They have both left me
Crumpled like trash
We lay camouflaged
Me and all my others
Labeled as dead
My skull in the rubble of your
So called love
My skin peeling away like a snake
Teeth falling out, falling around
Is this what you meant to do?
Donít worry, I canít feel it
When you wade in the gap
That you created
Is this your paradise?
There are no palm trees
No ocean breeze
Only raspy asthmatic breathing
And trails of dried up tears
Leading toward the dry cracked earth
Where your knees bend and settle
Push and release
Where your anger sits and festers
Indistinguishable from your
Other emotions
If you have them at all
My poetry is poison
Telling everyone of your ways
One day the poison will reach you
Fill you
Youíll feel it slowly
Starting in your fingertips
Or maybe esophagus
Where your voice sits
Hands still
Actually still
No longer digging into the earth
Bringing forth the warmth and spilling it
Into the chapped cracks
Where I lay mangled.
Written by DreamIllusions
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Tyrant of Words
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The origin of the last one standing (a vile horror story)

She asked questions
she already knew the answers to
white knuckle hoping
and silently begging
for specific
and certain replies

Being able to
predict every
possible scenario
and to adjust herself
is paramount
lucky, in laser instinct
At least fate afforded her
that small kindness

She sings songs
of muted harmony and peace
figuring that
light soothing

was where the engine
of mild safe complacency, fed

She dressed accordingly
and pleased them,
those that pulled strings
of survival
from a cold
and wholly owned
wretched existence

She kept her eyes
only on
which was straight ahead
unending obedience
never wavering
A "Yes Sir" or "Ma'am"
at every turn

She played the part
her self developed role
this game
one, where one day
she terrifyingly awoke,
to find herself in

A place, lessons of
pure horror were taught
minute by minute
teaching the 'inferior'
making her
pitting her
against a 'superior'
became fast in the revelation
of the entire motive
behind this nightmare,
the live playing out
every brutalized
wreaked of agony

To avoid, at all cost
any hint at misbehavior
when perceived 'consequences'
for negative actions
are a maniac's den
of conceived torture
forced female castration
acid scarification
(to name only a few)
unimaginable and unfathomable
reinforced though
and widely utilized,
by the abject ghastly,
howling screams
coming from
numerous nondescript
and as of yet,
nightly locations

Her body
on precarious edge
in constant shock
and cold,
controlled breathing
from second
to petrified
to second

One thought


(her willed mantra, repeats and repeats)

To Survive
to play the game

To play the game
only one thing

anything and everything


Written by Bluevelvete
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Tyrant of Words
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Nice and creepy.  Thanks for submitting and good luck in the competition, Robert.

Tyrant of Words
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That is a very scary one. With some very unfortunate bits of reality encountered by many many many  women all over the world.        Thanks for submitting, dear Blue  and good luck in the competition.

Tyrant of Words
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stalked visions

I could feel him stalking my dreams
following my soul into the unseen
sewing his secrets in my thoughts
until his phantom vision hunt me day and night

I saw myself through his eyes
an object of obsession
something to be prized
filleting the truth of me
until he found my complete honesty
year after year coming from the shadows making himself known
then retracing his steps to the dark where he felt at home

I would forget for awhile
my guard down I would let things slip
he would take a step closer the more he knew
my days were fated to him
the man of the mists with a penchant to consume me

daring me out into the night
I felt him watching, hunting the innocent
more blood spilled appeasing his lust for me
I felt their souls collect around me
warning me he's near don't go that way

never one to live in fear
I became curious about him and what he desired from me
the man in black I couldn't see

divining my future I dread
he would capture me and keep me prisoner
a dungeon of terror my final resting place
tormenting my body
torturing me until I scream in pain

death doesn't scare me living sometimes does
I warn him he must be smarter than the devil dealing with me
I will fight capture he would have to take me dead
the reaper is willing to take me over
I'm long overdue

my blood, his faith
watching me from afar dissecting my days

Written by crimsin (Unveiling)
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Tyrant of Words
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Filleting the truth of me.........I love you choice of words. dear Crimsin.        Scary enough indeed.   Thanks for submitting and good luck in the competition.    Kisses,   Robert.

Fire of Insight
United States
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The scourge

In love he walked to to bring this world, more hope and less distress
Then condemned to die in pain while they ripped and tore his flesh
A scourge was a special talent, that was done with quite precision
lashes, (40 minus one), with spikes, designed to make incisions
pulling out his beard, which tore the flesh upon his face
for added pain and humiliation, and try to add to his disgrace
A a crown of thorns plunged upon his head, for all to see him bleed
300 pounds, the cross he dragged, until Cyrene would intercede
Nails/spikes, were 5-inch long, would first go through his hands
more spiked iron, went through his feet, to make sure he could not stand
the weight of all would dislocate, the shoulders and the arms
now making it more difficult to breath, inflicting much more harm
lifting up on nailed feet would increase his feet more pain
then slumping down ,no chest support, his breath, he could not gain
People spat upon and mocked him, as they gambled for his clothes
for hours and hours he would suffer, until he was almost comatose
Bleeding out profusely from nails  thorns and whips
people started to notice, the sun was now eclipsed
his lungs were almost out of air, but before it was all through
a final prayer,"Forgive them father, they know not what they do"
famous last words, toward the kingdom, he would soon inherit
now my father," into your hands, I commit to you my spirit".
in his final moments his flesh was just about about extinguished
he bowed his head, and said to all, the end,"it is now finished"
The Roman soldier realized, as his spear he thrust and prod
Surely this man that we just killed "was the son of God."
The ground soon shook, the temple cracked, Jesus spirit then descended
three days into hell he went, then out the tomb he had ascended
overcoming death he spoke to more than five hundred gathered
confess your sins, follow me and to heaven be delivered
Betrayed and then abandoned, accused, abused and condemned
tortured, mocked and crucified, so eternity with him we may spend
Written by TIG
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Lost Thinker
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Why So Serious?

Why So Serious?
tomgoonery (Tommy.)
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Tyrant of Words
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...his corpse lay cute.....or lay cut?       Talk about gruesome.  Wow.

Mr Karswell
Fire of Insight
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Entrance to the Shrine

About a week before the pilgrims attempted their invasion of the sepulchre, three of their kind were convicted of a similar crime and executed on the steps of the Imperial Temple. The execution was carried out in the Barbaric style, still used in the modern age for crimes of religious belief, which were deemed to be the most serious of all due to their imperilment of every manís soul. To quote a local magistrate, Ďmurder, by contrast, strips only one man of his soul. Sacrilege potentially strips the soul from every man who ever took breath.í The Barbaric style required the convict to lay on the steps of the Temple and have their head pulverised by the steel ferrule of a large oak staff, wielded by an executioner who spent the rest of his time pulling hay-carts, wrestling wild boar, and performing other feats of strength. The process was disgusting but painless. The reigning Emperor prided himself on the civility of his domain. Even to the worst of its civilians.

The worst of its civilians this time were four teenage boys in sackcloth robes. They gathered fungi foraged from the woods surrounding an Imperial Cemetery, planning to survive on these in the underground network of tunnels beneath a certain grave. They'd fled their religious house a week prior, the food they'd stolen having lasted them the week it took to travel by foot to the cemetery. Initially, they were turned away by the guards outside the grave they were planning to invade, which was, they realised, probably a good thing. Entering the chamber by secret means meant that there'd be no one to realise where they were and what they were doing. Within an hour of them not emerging from the chamber, the guards would have gone in, found it empty, and reported the crime to their superiors.

That they had not considered their entrance to the shrine enough to realise this before they were turned away and therefore, at least, seen, was possibly a sign of how doomed their enterprise was. But youth defies sense, and so on the evening of their dismissal, they scaled the walls of the cemetery on their way to the Tomb of Tereska. Tereska was a saint who had gone to the shore to burn herself with coals heated over a campfire. It was in the burning, she wrote, that she saw the Godhead. Telling her of the True Kingdom, it had warned that no frail human shell could live for long with the knowledge it was giving her. And so, she had passed aged just twenty-three, her body wasting away in her father's house.

Her image as depicted in religious texts and iconography had tormented young men chosen for the unworldly life since her election to sainthood, twenty years after her death. Statues gave her large, pert breasts, just barely concealed by a sleeveless blouse. Her brunette hair poured down around her shoulders and gathered on her cleavage; in paintings her hair was haloed with gold, giving it blonde streaks. Whether or not she was beautiful in life, in death she became an icon of male desire. Most of the artworks were signed with men's names, sometimes delicately chiselled into the ankles of statues like tattoos of lovers' names. Paul, Simon, Abraham, Michael, Jonah.

Myths about Tereska proliferated among the orphaned boys chosen by religious houses for training as monks. She haunted their dreams, and soon even the stablest among them became at risk of believing that her grave housed a pleasure palace. 'Just think' said Absolom, 18 years old and leader of the boys, 'as scared as you are now, you'll feel ten times that in pleasure once we get inside.' He took a mushroom from his bag and nibbled at it. 'And besides, once we get down there, we can start a fire and cook some dinner.'

The hungry boys walked among the rows of tombs as the cold night pulled at their robes. They came to the little chapel that housed Tereska's remains, and Absolom picked the ancient lock with a length of wire. The chains clattered against stone, and everyone jumped, looking around. No one had dared to bring a lantern. They considered it a good omen that a full moon lit their way that night.

They entered the chapel and, once inside, Absolom dared to light a match. At the end of a small room was an altar with a jewelled coffin on it, and a door to the left. Each boy glanced at the coffin almost unwillingly as they passed, and entered a declining earthen passage lined with blazing torches. 'The eternal torches' whispered Absolom. They walked down the passage single-file, like a ritual procession.

They heated their mushrooms in a circular chamber overseen by a statue of Tereska, whose sculptor had seen fit to swaddle her breasts in a thick peasant smock. The slightly disappointed boys assumed that bolder statuary awaited and set about their meal. The fumes from the roasted fungi filled the chamber so that its dome-like structure, and the four pilgrims gathered within, evoked the feeling of a desert wigwam in which the elders of a tribe shared a sacred pipe.

The chamber had three doors aside from the one they entered by. As they ate their dinner, the boys speculated what each passage held for them. 'Martin said there's a room where five statues of Tereska come to life if you spill a drop of your blood on a shroud' said Peter, the youngest of the group, 'and pleasure you so well that you feel like an Emperor in the most exquisite harem you can imagine.'

Absolom scoffed, his mouth full of mushrooms and his nose filled with smoke, eyes watering a little. He brushed away the tears on his sleeve. 'And who told Martin that' he said.

'Well, what are you hoping for?' said Thomas, who was wiping his own face.

Absolom smiled. 'You go to the right place' he said, 'and you hear a girl singing. You follow that voice, and you get what's coming to you.' His smile expanded into a grin and he wolfed down a few more mushrooms.

By the time the other three had finished eating, Michael had fallen asleep. He was a tall and stocky boy, whom Absolom had been relying on to open any stone doors that might block his path during his exploration of the tunnels. He tried waking him up, but Michael was a deep sleeper, and grumpy when woken. He turned to Thomas, who at least had strong upper arms from his work in the fields that fed their monastery.

Peter was reluctant to stay behind but was convinced that he needed to be there if Michael woke up. 'And then you two can find your own Tereskas in one of the other tunnels' said Absolom, winking.

A little way into their chosen tunnel, as the torches were becoming more and more infrequent, the world as they could see it down there started to shiver. Thomas' eyes were bloodshot, raw lines of deep red forging paths through the whites. He started to stumble, seemed sleepy. They hadn't come across any stone doors, which Absolom was thankful for since Thomas seemed hardly fit to shift any of them.

Absolom himself wasn't altogether steady on his feet. His mind swam, returning to a shore of distant memory on which stood a girl he'd once seen while working in the monastic laundry. He'd been fourteen and she looked about seventeen, tall and strawberry blonde. He saw her through a window, onto a courtyard in which she was bathing herself. She stood in a steel tub, cheerfully washing as the sun dried her flesh almost as fast as she could wet it. She seemed to sense that someone was watching her and turned her head towards Absolom. To the moment he stood in the tunnels below Tereska's grave, he regretted having not been bold enough to meet her gaze, however he might have been punished. She was the only living woman he'd seen since his mother died when he was five, and his life was bequeathed to God.

He steadied himself against the wall, his coordination weakening. He looked behind him and saw that Thomas had collapsed a little way behind, and was now sleeping. Just as he was beginning to despair, however, he heard singing. A soft and gentle song, of lyrics made up by the singer but set to an old folk tune:

Come to Tereska,
give her a ring,
sit down beside her
and hear her sing...

Take her lovely hand and then,
see her turn into a wren...

Absolom followed the singing. Though he heard the name Tereska he imagined the girl that he'd seen four years ago. The image then became a chimaera of the two girls, one half of her flowing hair black, one strawberry blonde, one side of her body equipped with downy and unblemished limbs, one with dark spots from where the coals had burned her. He entered what seemed like a gigantic and endless hall, though he can't have been so far underground. He fell to his knees, strength having suddenly fled his lower body.

The ceiling was swaddled in clouds, grey and pregnant with rain. Clinging to the walls were lattices of bone. And opposite the door through which Absolom had come, a short distance from where he knelt, was a tub in which a woman bathed. But she was neither the girl of his memory nor St Tereska as depicted in her statuary. She wasn't even the chimaera.

What he saw in the bath was a wizened and insane woman, covered in scars. She rocked back and forth, wailing, crying out as raindrops fell from the clouds and landed on her flesh, leaving large black bruises that seemed to spread like spilt wine staining a carpet. Absolom tried to stand but couldn't. As he watched, her breasts rotted away from her body. It felt like an age since he'd heard that lovely singing.

Suddenly the strength returned to his limbs and he fled that place of torture, back down the passageway, barely noticing that Thomas was missing from where he'd left him. He found himself back in the chamber where they'd been roasting mushrooms, only now Michael was missing. When his gaze cleared enough to take in the scene what he saw was a tableau from a nightmare. Thomas and Peter lay like mice flung from a cat's maw. Their innards in ropes were scattered about the chamber, red and tinged with pink in the light of the flaming torches that divided the stone Tereskas.

And in all that blood and gore, like the girl from the long-ago courtyard, stood a flesh Tereska, stark naked and with arms outstretched, dalmatian-spotted with bruises. A sunny and radiant smile featured on her blood-spattered face. Her breasts and hips and legs were perfect, as per the demands of adolescent male fantasy. And yet Absolom couldn't have imagined finding any vision less attractive. 'What's the matter?' she said, her girlish smile faltering slightly. 'Don't you find me beautiful? Isn't this what you wanted?' She moved as if to approach him. He screamed and turned to run back through the passage. He was stopped short by the sight of a figure running at him through that darkness, intermittently lit by the torches. It was Michael, his facial expression crazed to a point where the boy that Absolom had known was unrecognisable. Ropes of intestine hung about his neck like regal jewellery.

A jagged slice of stone was raised above his head, and Absolom saw that he'd somehow torn it from a statue. That he'd beaten his friends to death with one of Tereska's lovely thighs. Michael was screaming, an atavistic howl of inchoate rage. Absolom dodged him at the last moment and Michael fell, the disembodied stone thigh flying across the room as he fell into Thomas' chest cavity. 'My lovely boys' said Tereska, stroking Michael's hair as he fell into a paroxysm of sobbing. 'I've waited so long for my suitors. You understand, I know, the burden of virginity. How it aches inside you, rips you apart as you dream and dream and dream... But I've waited long enough. I never had a husband. And now I have four. And what dowries you've brung!' She picked up the stone thigh, which pinked and plumped until it was live flesh. She took a large bite of it. Absolom's ears filled with the sound of skin and muscle torn from bone. She knelt down to embrace Michael, a mother bird feeding her young.

Absolom chose another passage and ran, faster and longer than he'd ever thought himself capable of. At some point he lost consciousness and woke in a damp cave-like chamber, low-ceilinged and crudely constructed, lit by a fire pit built into the floor. The fire gave a flickering impression of yet another Tereska, glancing down at a basket of flowers cradled in her arms. Absolom's mind had lost some of its fog, but in its wake was a migraine. He slumped against a wall and stared at Tereska with the basket. He realised that he still had his satchel and took from this the hidebound diary he'd been keeping for a year. To distract from his headache and claw his way a little further back to reality, he started writing. He wrote of everything he'd seen. 'When I'm stronger I'll go back and find the others. No doubt they'll be ribbing me for years about this, my first experience of sleepwalking.' He heard a noise and glanced up. Tereska was offering him her basket, but there were no flowers in it. In their stead was a fresh and steaming pile of human offal.

In the cemetery above a group of scholars were foraging for fungi among the foliage, which extended from a bordering forest, over a wall, and in among the graves themselves. 'These' said one to a couple of his proteges, holding out a handful of small mushroom heads, 'have been known to assist in the summoning of infernal visions to the mind's eye. Not fifty years ago seven witches were burned in a nearby village. They'd been employed as truffle hunters for the local gentry and would scour the woods with their hunting pigs, plucking fungi to keep for themselves. To stave off hunger, so they said. They were exposed when one was found in the throes of a fit, having brutally sacrificed one of her confederates to a heathen god whose name she kept screaming, all the way to the gallows.'

One of the proteges tilted his head. For a moment he thought that he'd heard a voice far away, possibly underground. He glanced behind him and saw in the distance the chapel of Tereska, at the crest of a small hill.

Neither Absolom nor his friends were found before hundreds of years had passed, during an excavation of the underground tunnels that revealed the network dedicated to Tereska and her statuary. A hidebound diary was found resting atop a stone bouquet cradled by the saint. She appeared to be looking at it with a smile of humour and affection.
Written by Casted_Runes (Mr Karswell)
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Tyrant of Words
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Gruesome.  Excellent.  Thanks for submitting.  Good luck in the competition.    regards, Robert.

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