"Poc-ca-hontas..." John Smith struggled to talk as the native Princess stood in front of him. He was going to die. He knew it. At the hand of a savage, his wife.
"Tell me, John Smith. Why should I spare you life? Your people killed mine, and you no longer long to wish to be wed. So, your services in this world are no longer needed. Neither is your skin. The elders need your soul to be clean."
He paused. His skin. She couldn't be serious. He had stories as a child, of violent native Americans scalping anyone who came close to their lands. The elders? Who was she talking about? Her eyes turned black and a green mist surrounded her. She smiled as two black wings seemed to grow out of her back. He left the life seem to seep out of him as he fell into a growing abyss of nothing.
Have you ever heard the wolf cry
To the blue corn moon
For whether we are white
Or copper skinned
Can you sing with all the voices
Of a mountain
Can you paint with all the colors
Of John Smith
She sung this for hours as she cut into John Smith's body. Finally, his soul was clean for the elders.
To send into hell.
She took the skin as a reward, leaving his body to rot and the elder sisters of the underworld a new playmate.
Pocahontas hung John Smith on the wall, alongside the other men she had seduced and killed for one bounty.
Skin.
(A\N who knew the world loved cannibals? Thanks so much!)
