posted
(As a result of discussions in other threads, I have decided to post six openings to stories of mine. Two of these sold to the first market they went to; two sold after garnering rejections; two remain unsold).
The spell had failed. Thavong War-Gwai slumped back, exhausted. There were pools of clotting blood all around him. Twelve bodies hung from the rafters, each roped by their ankles, each with their throat slit. Twelve bodies, drained of blood. And nothing. Feng Hsieh was still dead. Her body lay, still and pale, on the catafalque. There was no colour in her smooth cheeks; none in the pouting lips. I am sorry, he thought. I am sorry I killed you. It was a mistake. It was an accident. How much blood is it going to take, to bring you back?
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