Bleeding

Thrice virginized, a lady idolized, a hope to seize those thighs, am I alive,

I cried, bled, and I died, she sighs, you may live in a jar, but there’s so much you don't know, existing outside of it, am I alive,

Second try, roses and a diamond ring, what should I buy, a red string, some soup, is she tired,

He really dies, he cries, she sighs, and I want to pray between her thighs,

She asks why, and I say I love my mom, just a man, and he falls deep into the abyss, and she was very sad,

Just a man, who did the best he could, eternities pass, and I'll still yearn for more, hoping to gain the experience points, a shift in the tide, a struggle, a challenge, a fight, something to make me feel alive,

I wonder why I was weaving a soft cushion,

He fell further, the struggle and it's release, the feeling, it's healing,

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He just didn’t care, infected with demons, but sometimes that's what you need, to satisfy your mother,

The virgin came three times...

The Call of the Red River

It was a long story, a boy grew up into a man, as one does, drumming echoed out into the distance, the ritual had begun, a walk through the village, across the bridge, to the cafe, a scent wafted in the air, it smelled like lavender, an old wizard had travelled the trail, he spoke of an old world and youth, spring had begun, and the flowers had been arranged, they took their places, planted their seeds, and were blooming, and a secret third thing,

A French girl was walking around, she was hoping to get a job as a barista, opening doors left and right, weaving a web, for the deities she's serving, the spring well, it ran deep, and was everlasting with this one,

A sun warrior, her father, had sensed her coming, so he began to follow the trail,

Up the road, atop the hill, was an old monk, walking that age old path of poets and writers, seeking to become one with the universe, watching the heroes go by, so many journeys, to sew their seeds, make their mark on the world, and become heroes,

Above them, an owl to watch them all, “Send approval above you,” she calls to you,

The forest creatures scurry and the crafty raccoon smiles, “Tell the moon, I’m coming,” he says with a laugh,

And the king in his castle saw the report, “The wizards call, the ritual has begun,” he says,

The virgin goes out into the world, and the witches echo their laughter,

Also walking these paths, a grey-haired hunter, a fisherman, and a hero,

And out they came, and out they called, “We will feast tonight,” the vampires singing their song,

And the writer, he left it, to think it through, overnight, when the moon calls out, when the wolves begin to howl, and when the old dragon begins to coil up the tree, as harpies begin the hunt,

In the distance, a unicorn, to remind us of the path not taken,

For the river,

Was drenched,

With blood.