by Rose Lemberg
Darja’s husband stood in the doorway, his bulk a blackness of smoke-smelling furs that obstructed the way back into the warmth. For three years the log-house had been her home, but now the starving wind slashed her, the snow choked her, the heart-heavy dusk smothered her face.
Darja smelled the teeth rotting in her husband’s mouth, dripping poison down his tongue. “Take your whelp and bury it in snow.”
Filed under: Jabberwocky 6