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The Drifter

10/4/2014

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Part I

The drifter rumbled into town with the thunder.
An oblong sack slumped over his shoulder,
    Just waiting to seize the moment...
    The moment of contact.
Shuffling down the gutters,
counting the open shutters and coughing
up his slime along the way.
    Someone was going to die.
    There needn't be a reason why
    'cept to stave off an insatiable appetite.
Thunder rumbled into town with the drifter
and pelted the blackened streets
with sheets of an evil, melancholy rain.
    That oblong sack screamed of timing.
    It was hungry, and thunder was
    the perfect cover to stifle the last gasps of its prey.

Part II

With every soul shattering clack,
the drifter clenched his sack...
whispering patience as he peered in
through the slats of unsuspecting panes.
    Months had passed from his last feeding
    and his nefarious urges were seething
    causing his fingers to clench.
He had been here before,
and could smell the stench of live blood
in the dripping, stormy air.
    Finding the perfect specimen
    was a force to be reckoned with for sure.
    There could be no mistakes.
In a sudden slice of 2 A.M. light
his eyes lay upon the tonic;
the fleshy nectar needed for his shakes.

Part III

Then the early morning sky cracked open
and he attacked his chance to enter
the home of some forgetful woman...
    God-fearing unbeknownst to the killer
    that he was. She slept with silver daggers
    and crosses forged from willow bark.
The drifter dropped his duffel at the door,
for the first time in a thousand years
fear filled his cavern more than ever before...
as she fooled him.
    She didn't forget to lock that door...
    she baited it, beckoning for the return
    of the lover that turned her away from God.
She got him, oh she got him good.
A severed head thudded to the floor,
leaking its slime...
cold, dead, dark eyes blinked one time more
    then turned to ashes at her scorned, forlorn feet.
    Her revenge of the blood-lustful drifter
    made her feel complete, and washed over her in sheets
    like the streets full of melancholy rain.
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    Molly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw.

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  • Home
  • Showcase
  • Audrie Bretl Roelf
  • Molly Roland
  • Wicked Stories Showcase
  • What We're Looking For
  • About
  • Wicked Events
  • The Writers' Props!
  • Writer Bios
  • Hear Ye, Hear Ye!
  • Contact
  • Gallery