Fey Touched by Erin Zarro

Chapter 1

 

 

JOE

 

The woman lay in the cemetery on a bed of snow. Snowflakes clung to her blonde hair and sparkled like diamonds. Slivers of moonlight touched her serene face. Her skin was the blue-tinged skin of the Fey.

After turning up the heat in my coat, I reached out to touch her and immediately recoiled. She was so cold that I’d gotten a taste of frostbite, the cold stinging my fingers. Was she dead?

Pixie, a German Shepherd who was my companion and familiar, whined. She was right to lead me here, her thoughts urgent in my head.

She poked the woman with her nose. The woman did not move, did not even twitch. Pixie whined, poking the woman again. There was no rise and fall of her chest. There was nothing.

“What do you think, girl?” I asked.

Pixie gazed at me with eyes that reflected sympathy and intelligence. The thought – Pixie’s – unfurled in my mind.

Not dead. Must save.

My heart thudded. I was Fey Touched, a Hunter of her kind. Technically, she was my enemy. I had the right to kill her on sight. Why didn’t I?

I didn’t like the Fey as a rule. There were Hunters who believed that all Fey were evil and must …

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Bleeding Stars

 

Dreams settle into shadows

as we cling to each other –

 

Our time is finite

damp with absence,

a wish thrown into sunset.

How I want to see you,

as you rise from mundane hours

and find me,

trapped in the satin of sky,

holding starlight promises.

 

We steal small eternities –

the pieces of existence

we can’t mold into words,

the shape of regret.

 

Love is only a memento

plucked from our somber nights

and pressed into memory.

It haunts us in our dreams;

it whispers through dark spaces.

 

Eyes like pendulums,

we’re dancing shadows,

bleeding stars.

 

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Life as a Moving Target Excerpt

ESSENCE

I ask myself:
what is the essence of me?

Is it in each heartbeat and breath I take,
or is it the invisible, the intangible, the something, my soul?
They probe every darkened corner of my brain,
they navigate the vast map of neurons, synapses, memory.

They record every beat of my heart, my voice, my echo.

They search for that something, the elusive malfunction,
what resonates within the vessel walls, what reverberates,
what stops.

They use big words to describe
the most mundane of things.

But within each new word lies not one clue,
not one answer to one very important question.

To map and study my internal workings
is not an accurate representation
of the essence of me.

My something.

So, I walk through shadows, and watch the
lights dance for me in the most mundane places.

I live my days always falling, never stilled, never without motion.

I collect names of ailments and bury them
along with soured fragments of hope I once
carried.

I watch as my world gets dimmer
and my balance fails me.

I wrap myself in promises that snap shut,
answers that may never reveal themselves.

I hope to find the one thing that
I cannot touch:

the Truth.

 

 

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