The Tongue Of Blades

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The Tongue of Blades By Hunter Brickley The night, enclosed, claustrophobic, black.

The crickets, trumpeters of doom, As the sweat rolls down my back.

Will the sun come up, invite the day, Will all my fears be swept away.

Or will the night, clinging tight, Pull me back to my grave.

-Hunter Brickley The halls glistened white, the black boys had done their job well.

That was good, the beast had instilled fear; no, hate in them. They were driven by it, out of their minds.

The Beast was coming.

The claws were long, the hands were clenched chunks of iron. The tongue, the tongue was sweet yet sharp. Lilting, yet edged with the blades of hate. Her eyes were two beads of black stone. Alternating Red, Black, Red, Black. Cutting into your very heart, disecting you piece by insignificant piece. Laying you open for all to see.

The Beast was coming.

She walked down the hall, the metal soles of her polished black shoes clicking against the floor. Ticking off the minutes of our sanity.

Her name was Nurse Ratched. She owned this place, place, this polished hell. She ruled with her tongue, she would slice you up and spit you out before you knew what was happening. She was subtle, slipping little things under your skin that seemed painless until you started to bleed.

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