This is based off an Italian folk tale called The Dead Man’s Palace. It’s another long one with ten parts. This is the first draft, I’m in the process of writing a more polished version right now.
The Dead Man’s Palace
I
The dead man didn’t start to decay
like a normal corpse should,
but it felt old, forgotten, smelling of dust
and stale fabric. The skin was tight,
straining over bones with a yellowed paper texture.
The hair was a lush black, but straw-like to touch.
The clothes were worn, a distant memory of wealth,
a clue of sophistication and class.
All the castle rooms were brightly lit,
well-kept, yet she never saw a soul,
never sensed any presence.
The dead man was laid on a stone slab
in the centre of the room, with a single
chair set up beside it. Hard and uncomfortable.
She found meals waiting in the kitchen,
the cupboards stocked with provisions.
She had no worries to distract her from her task;
to obey the note left at the dead man’s feet
and watch over him for a year, three months and a week.
Then she’d be his bride.
A year passed in solitude, boredom,
sleep-deprived but determined she watched, and
noticed the corpse begin to change.
His skin was now soft, his limbs relaxed,
but pale, drained of the sun’s presence.
His hair was clean, smelling of blossoms.
Her hair had smelt of blossoms,
but now it was dull and lifeless.
Her skin was dry. She was tired all the time.
Her mind played tricks now, imagining the
dead man twitching, his eyelids fluttering,
her waking to find him in a different
position than before.
The call from outside of ‘Slave girls for sale!’
brought relieved sobs to the surface
as she rushed to the window.
Any company would do.
Scribbled Thoughts 