Left at the Altar
Shendae lay her infant daughter on the slab. The child went quietly. She was such a good girl.
Nothing like her father.
No, nothing like him. He was all fuss and noise, angry words and broken promises. But he would learn. How to be silent. How to be still.
A slip of jezebel root, tucked in the swaddle. A boneset candle, already lit. A black iron dagger, forged only in moonlight.
Everything Shendae needed to curse that good-for-nothing ex of hers.
Almost everything.
The only thing she was missing was something of his.
The blood of his child would do.
Nothing like her father.
No, nothing like him. He was all fuss and noise, angry words and broken promises. But he would learn. How to be silent. How to be still.
A slip of jezebel root, tucked in the swaddle. A boneset candle, already lit. A black iron dagger, forged only in moonlight.
Everything Shendae needed to curse that good-for-nothing ex of hers.
Almost everything.
The only thing she was missing was something of his.
The blood of his child would do.
Originally Published in HATE: A Dark Microfiction Anthology