Bleeding lives in a dead place forgotten. If not for the cannonade in her head she'd wonder if she was breathing, or was she dreaming in a monochrome storm again? Wafting shadows scattering remembered existence. Screaming whispers swore their outrage to the morning arriving to die, or was survival another lie, a tear on her finger in a noir rain? ©March 2019, March 2022 Christina Anne Hawthorne
Christina Anne Hawthorne
Alive and well in the Rocky Mountains. I'm a fantasy writer who also dabbles in poetry, short stories, and map making. My Ontyre tales are an alternative fantasy experience, the stories rich in mystery, adventure, and romance. Alternative fantasy? Not quite steampunk. Not quite gothic. In truth, the real magic is in those who discover what's within.
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