Hair Down

Long ago, they say, there once was a fair maiden, whose shining black hair flowed from atop her crown past her soles below. Long it spread, far and wide, covering all the land; trees and rivers, mountains and valleys, every hovel of every village, every square of every city. Even their capital lay under its silk-smooth cover. Men, women, children and beasts were tangled in its supple touch. One by one they drifted into that sweet oblivion that is sleep. A scent of fresh flowers filled the air. Bliss, o bliss! Soon, the land was quiet under the endless mane. Now, she stands alone, amid a sea as black as a starless night; she combs it gently, slowly. A lover’s caress every night. Dreaming, yearning, of growing her hair just a little bit more. Just a bit more. A bit more. More. More. More.


A Short, Bloody Affair

A hundred Yakuza surround her, a hundred gun barrels and swords point in her direction. Death’s finger on every last one of these sons of bitches. She is tired and bloodied. A score of their own lie dead or dying all around them. A chorus of moans to carry them into Hell thickens the air. They can tell the Devil she’ll get there on her own sweet time. A sword, barely held by her slender fingers, is dipped in red. Her own gun ran empty ten corpses ago. “A man dies, the World mourns all over. A woman dies…and she dies alone.” A sigh dances over her lips and stretches into a grin. “The World can burn and grieve a hundred times more then.” Raising her sword, she prepares to dance one more time.