The Ring (story by G. W. Bael)

Its size was large yet reasonable, its edges filed away to form a perfect circle of crystal. It possessed a clarity that halted the passage of light but a fraction more than glass. This near perfect stone sat atop a polished golden surface curled around a distinctly feminine finger. A finger once slender and fragile now twisted and swollen. Blackened purple skin spread from the band infecting the finger’s otherwise dull grey exterior. This speck of color may well have been overlooked if not for the obtrusive nature of the brittle protrusions that crowned each finger. The passage of time had done nothing to slow their growth but the tips remained proudly stained a shade of crimson. This depth of color stood in stark contrast to the tattered pale cloth that enshrouded the remainder of the body, save for a thin veil obscuring a face that belonged neither to a man nor woman. This peculiarity however was of little note as the adornment bestowed upon the hand far outshone the dreariness of the surrounding features. Held tight within its motionless grasp lay a small fragment of decaying wood, its silver appendage long since surrendered to flesh.

Image by sara graves from Pixabay

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