She did nothing to earn her beauty. It was given to her. And as with many such gifts, beauty was both a boon and a burden to the girl whose name was Imelda.
She was doted on by some, guarded by others, coveted by still others.
Imelda’s mother, who both loved and feared for her girl, spent many sleepless nights wondering when her child would grow old enough to be passed into the protection of another. For she and her husband were humble folk, as their child too would have been. But Imelda’s beauty—while it may not have impressed in a city or even a large town—was quite surpassing in their little village. Surpassing enough to catch the eye of those with greater means. The girl wished to be learned. She wished to explore.
Perhaps her beauty could make it so could do what she dreamed of doing.
The king is the hound and the hound is the king.
The feasters come and eat, but they don’t suspect a thing.
It’s a feast like none they’ve seen, a spectacular repast.
They never e’er suspect that the meal will be their last.
The first one was discovered when it bit a child. Such a thing was not unheard of. Children often tugged and poked and got themselves bitten or kicked or nipped at. But when this little boy’s mother came to pick him up and check his wound, she found something far more insidious than broken bleeding skin and a crying child. The gash was deep, the flesh shredded, and it bubbled and festered with a foul odor, as if the flesh had been rotting for days, though it was only freshly wounded.Continue reading