Edwin and His Lady
A Short Story
Content warning: The following story contains graphic descriptions of violence, referenced or simulated sexual violence, sexual euphemism, and gore.
Edwin's mistress bade him do violence unto her. He trawled the mocking pedway, so unyielding to the needs of pedestrian traffick.
"My lady," he muttered good-naturedly to himself, "Is a sorely desperate sort. She rots to mere gummatous fibrin without my loving."
He crossed unperturbed above the lanes and lanes of self-directing chariots below, each one the host of a lonely and insulated individual.
Edwin was different from them, for his purpose was granted divinity through brutality and ritual. He reached the pedway's end and sank through the yellow hatch to the pavement below. There he grinned at an unassuming gate and was swiftly granted entry to her dominion.
Vibrant and teeming as it was with simulated phosphorescence and the rapidly blooming-then-decaying phalaenopsis, she seemed a tame sight in her comfortable outerwear. What was underneath could inspire either feeble longing or resentment, though, for the uncomplicated state-mandated features the bourgeois could access for their progeny.
"I was musing," she began, "That you could do to me what the fascists did to my mother." Her mother had refuted the unborn their right to live, ten or twenty times. There was a distinctly horrible punishment for that type of thing.
"My lady," he muttered good-naturedly to himself, "Is a sorely desperate sort. She rots to mere gummatous fibrin without my loving."
He crossed unperturbed above the lanes and lanes of self-directing chariots below, each one the host of a lonely and insulated individual.
Edwin was different from them, for his purpose was granted divinity through brutality and ritual. He reached the pedway's end and sank through the yellow hatch to the pavement below. There he grinned at an unassuming gate and was swiftly granted entry to her dominion.
Vibrant and teeming as it was with simulated phosphorescence and the rapidly blooming-then-decaying phalaenopsis, she seemed a tame sight in her comfortable outerwear. What was underneath could inspire either feeble longing or resentment, though, for the uncomplicated state-mandated features the bourgeois could access for their progeny.
"I was musing," she began, "That you could do to me what the fascists did to my mother." Her mother had refuted the unborn their right to live, ten or twenty times. There was a distinctly horrible punishment for that type of thing.
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