Oct. 4th, 2009 | 11:14 pm
I was out to play. In the middle of one of m favorite hunting spots, I collapsed. In and out of delirum I could hear girls screaming, feel strangely warm hands moving me, and the thick sickening taste of blood. When I came to I heard voices talking about me. I realized I was in the hospital, face down on an uncomfortably ridged table. They were talking to me now. Something about my blood. It wasn't diseased though, it was much worse. It was clotting and not cleansing itself of dead cells. What had caused me to collapse was one of many clots around the brain. I laid still as they cleared spots to inject and thinner into multiple areas through my skull. Here I had thought they were just bad headaches. As I felt more massive pain rush through my head with each injection, I considered how I had thought I would die. From the plane trip back home. A horrible car wreck. A random drive by shooting. Hell- even from AIDS. Never once did I truly think I could have very well kicked the bucket from natural causes. How fitting though. I actually started to quietly laugh about it but stopped when I realized how it was spooking the nurses. When they were done, I was sat up and given a small bucket and a towel. They checked my I.V. and told me that I was going to start bleeding soon. What they failed to mention was that it was to the effect of someone attaching a toilet leaver to my head and flushing. All of a sudden I felt a small trickle coming from my nose. Then my ears followed suit. Finally my mouth as I puked breath after breath into the bucket. The doctor came in and was telling me that the clots were only half the problem. All this fluid gushing from my fattened head was attacking my body. I could barely see those pretty blue eyes from behind my tears of blood.
Oct. 4th, 2009 | 10:54 pm
Some friends called me up the other day. They wanted me to visit so I said fine. Within the evening, the back was packed, planes boarded and transferred and I found myself outside in a chill breeze watching a steel gray sky slide into a concrete gray city. They had always been a cute couple. It was an odd relationship - mine to them. They never let me wander too far into myself very long before I got a phone call to chitter about, well, whatever. I never knew why they considered me a friend but they were a saving grace. The night clubs were hit in a timid way merely because said predator was out if it's element. That's fine. These people didn't need an artists' red paint thrown about the guest room. I stayed for a as-warm-as-can-be week and never saw the sun break the solid color of horizon and civilization. It truly left me feeling hollow. They only made me resent it in their beautiful bliss. I wondered what they would think if I told them that their strangely appealing friend was a hopeless monster. The thought woke me from sleep, tear stained.
Oct. 4th, 2009 | 09:03 pm
Sometimes I wonder. I tell myself, you've walked that path before. You remember the stones that made you soles bleed, the tracks worn hard into the ground. Nothing can change that path, nothing to lift the trail of blood you left. But my mind still wanders back, looking into those eyes. There was something there, but it wasn't for me. There was a longing in that glance, was it a mirror of my own? I do not regret the paths I followed but those that I could not. I stare at those dark woods and wonder how the mottled sun would feel on my face, if I could hear a brook sing somewhere in the distance. But I like my path now. The grass is soft on my sore feet and the sun keeps me warm. There are roots of my past that spawl out to trip me and I grow weary somedays, thinking if only I could lay here for a spell. Then the winds tug at my limbs and I know it's time to carry on. I look from my way but do not think I wish to have followed you. Carry on traveler, we can enjoy the views from the other sides.
Oct. 4th, 2009 | 09:02 pm
I dreamt that I was drowning. I breathed in icy water and it felt like hot spears through my lungs. I had fallen through spires of stone and the warmth of my blood ebbed away in my vision, creating a nearly purple veil. I looked up to see at first a lone figure far, far above me staring down the sheer white cliff. Soon the spirits appeared, glancing down at the one they had long ago called murderer, savior, lover and even once mother. I wished my hollow vessel would die but as the first payment for my sins, I lingered long. I thought of all the words the Vikings had for ice and finally understood what it meant. I fixed the last strings of my consciousness onto the single solid figure. I tied all my hatred to him to insure that in the lives to come, he would never succeed in the ventures that created the need for my death. When I felt there was no more to do I sunk back into the wonderfully warm darkness. I laid in furs near a fire, so comfortably warm and so near sleep. Sleep would not come though, for there was an icy breeze that kept me from crossing that boundary. This was limbo and this is where I stayed until I stirred to venture back into the cold of the world.
I dreamt that I was living.
Oct. 4th, 2009 | 09:00 pm
I got to thinking; Why Do I Write?
I helped a gentleman during a workshop by asking him if he'd ever made a movie for himself, something that he showed no one else. He said no, what was the point of that? I told him that everything he makes should be for himself first. Much of my writing I have shared with few. I have little stories that I wrote down, just to set free from my heart. But now, now I write and put them up here. Once, I got really mad. I put a post asking for people's opinion of my work and got no response. I see the numbers that tell me that someone has looked at what I wrote, but yet still I only get a few responses and I don't know why. I should not think like that. I never used to. I wrote for myself and no one else so why does it matter now. I don't know why I write anymore.
The Celtic people rarely ever wrote things down. They were a brilliant culture and were frequently used by the Greeks as tutors. However, they believed that if they wrote it down, the spirit of the object would be bound and no longer have any power. This culture was all but wiped out with so little left that nearly nothing is known about it's history.
Am I trying to leave my own legacy? Making sure that there is some way that others know I existed? Am I merely a vessel to carry these stories to the next set of people so that greater things are learned and not lost? Or am I trying to dilute the powers of others so that history cannot repeat what has or may be?
I don't know anymore. The words don't always pull at me like they use to, the pictures that I try and paint aren't always as vivid in my mind. I have given much of my time to mundane things and have even questioned my abilities.
I write, for myself. I write, so that the stories that will fade with time are bound to something greater than what I can control. I do not fear rejection or dislike. It does not matter if the listener is a stadium of people or just a crackling fire, the universe still hears the words. I write and that is all that matters.
Oct. 4th, 2009 | 08:49 pm
Pressure. It start with a look. That look. You catch it, roll it about on your tongue, and return it. It's the heat in your eyes but you throw a skirt over it with a smile, and a g-string of a giggle. They eat it up like it was liquid candy but cool it so the fire doesn't burn you both. Sliding over you both slide into the ritual, licked lips, finger slid through hair, a head tossing laugh and that sly smile under it all. Conversation is laced and tied if you know the game. Doesn't matter whose house but when you make it there you both still play cordial. But cordial falls under the raging dragon of hormones. Hands find their way, fumbled or sly, doesn't matter as long as they find the grips. Lips brush, tongues seek the heat buried deep inside. Clothes are suddenly an obstruction instead of the signal, but they're still fun. They slide on top top of you as you submit into a couch or bed or floor...or shower. Jean clad hips grind into your slit of a dress and you can feel the beast uncoil into your lungs. Now the ungarbing is more desperate and bare flesh can only take a shutter inhale before it meets another's flesh and the heady wave of desire. Everything spins, shuttering to goosebumps and the heaves, pushing you farther into the intoxication for more. They lie their body on yours. Berserk. For Pressure.
Oct. 4th, 2009 | 08:47 pm
Sweet was her brow, eased without fear. Her face relaxed, a small smile curling on reddening lips. A single bat of long black lashes that never needed makeup. Everything seemed to move like a dream, slow and still, and simply unreal. The crows rose from their perches as the shot rang out, but there wings beat like her heart. He watched her fall, wonderfully golden curls fighting with the flight as hovering about her as though a breeze had caught them in it's fingers. Her eyes caught his for a moment, a final goodbye that had no time for words. Reality came spinning back and she'd hit the ground, dead before impact. A single bullet, a single breath, a single life. The love that burned like a Phoenix caught in his arms, simply turned to ash in the rain. Too many things were suddenly late, dreams lost, flowing over the flat roof and mingling with the dust of angels. There is no god for men like him, no one to answer to or save him when the dark night gets to be too much. But it was not over, she was gone, but that was always a risk in the greater story. He had more to do, and promised to leave with her soon enough.
Julia, you are the only blooden angel for the two-toned daemon named Spike.
Oct. 4th, 2009 | 08:39 pm
There are some beings in this world that are impossible. They are beyond the mind's idea of beauty and though they know it, they only carry it as a sash, never a badge. Those that are strong realize that they are chosen, and have no choices whether they are noticed or not. Those that are weak follow, chasing just the wisps of such a shadow to feel great. These people are without failings because the faults are unnoticed. They are called Leaders, Prophets, Blessed, and even sometimes gods. They exist whether they are noticed or not. And when this greatness is twisted, the results are horrific. Every great leader can turn into a tyrant, just as every prophet can turn into occultist. The strong and the weak follow the same but what could have been joy is now just rage. This is how wars are started, and worse still, how they are ended. This is what he did to the great leagues of the angels. Rather than continuing to be an excellent leader of a formidable legion, he handed them over to their enemy. This meant death to every angel who did not stand beside their leader's choice. Worse still, this meant that every angel who stayed fought for their enemy. And their leader? His choice was so respected by the demons that he became their leader as well. Even the angel Lucifer sighed and shook his head at the betrayal, for his was a decision he did not make himself. This leader of the angels, this traitor of his kind, was simply known as Gabriel. Under his rule of demons and angels there was nothing left to protect the humans. They angels charged to save the humans were forced to merely watch without action, or for those who were cunning, move hands to keep the humans safe. The demons moved within the orders of Gabriel which were few and gave much leave. This is not where it started, but where many of the troubles began. So it has been known to both demons and angels alike, no matter how they tell it.
Oct. 4th, 2009 | 08:37 pm
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath in. There was something closed about snowfall. The way the clouds blanketed the sky and without a wind, the air felt warm and thick. The snow just seemed to hang, more the sky seemed to drift down before your eyes. Under the city lights the world was a rose color, tinged in ambers and grays. I remembered to breathe out and it came in a lazy puff of steam. Cars moved with slow caution, like a child moving from patch of light to patch of light, afraid of the creatures in the darkness between. I clung to myself, the warm air was a lie and it really was cold enough to freeze water in the space of free fall. I couldn't remember why I was out, it was more like a banshee that was lulling me along to a frigid fate. At the bridge I watched the world trudge on through ether. As the snow pulled I followed, realizing that it had nothing to do with gravity. It was simply that the snow knew the ground was warm and would pull it in with a soft embrace after the cold fall.
Oct. 4th, 2009 | 08:35 pm
She smelled like ginger. It was sharp and sweet at the same time. Her willowy limbs snaked about me; a single leg went from the trunk of my body, down the side of my thigh with her toes cupped in the hollow of my knee. Her arm reached across my chest, nails brushing my skin as I breathed. I idly stroked her leg, my fingers slowing to trace the burst of scar tissue that riddled such soft skin. It was so hard to let her go, even now. Her family protected her like a pack of wolves, silent in the way they snarled at others who came near. It was much the same for me when I met her, but they saw that they had little choice and instead took to sullenly pacing about. I was a threat to their lives and hers though I never was the cause of any pain. Ah, but how could I ignore that beautiful face? She called to me. Without a word spoken, I followed like a lost pup. Sighing softly, I could feel her growing stiff from being in the same position for so long. I shifted her off my bare body and laid her back, brushing her silky hair aside. Oh, she wasn't my first, and before long I would have to let her go as well. But, I would never forget such a splendor. So I rose and dressed with a type of slowness that only avoidance of the inevitable can create. I lifted her still form, cradling her carefully as I carried her back upstairs. Her family would be along for her soon and if I wanted to keep my life the way I enjoyed it, she best be proper. So I settled the time I had with her into my memories and went back to work with the faint taste of ginger pervading my senses.
Oct. 4th, 2009 | 08:31 pm
I live in my name now. I am more of a bogle than a true ghost, existing only in the whispers between boy in the bathrooms of club. Most just throw me about to get a rise out of fresh meat. There are a few that I loathe. Speaking as though they narrowly escaped my bloodied talons. if I had wished to kill those wastes of flesh, I would of. It's hell being dead. or maybe I'm just in hell. I stood in the club, watching the milling and trying to avoid being touched. He caught my eyes easily enought. Shirtless, ripped and bathed in light and sweat. From below him came a blue glow like a cold spring twilight. From above cast a red corona that all but gave the sensation of heat. These colors washed over his chest and torso, vying for their place and mingling into a bruise of shadows where the battles were lost. I sighed from the irriatation of having just one more thing to want. Drifting my way over the hunger only became stronger, uncoiling from within. I felt drawn to the liquid candy colors. For a breath and then another, I just watched in a sick awe of heavy hung lust. Unable to resist any longer I moved into him. When you are nothing, it is easy to pour yourself into something tangible and stretch out inside. I listened to his blood drum up to fill his strong heart, his lungs pull like a bird beating it wings in a lazy flight, and the electricity spark and jump from nerve to nerve. The warmth of his body all but made me sad while I could tell the chill of my thought ran his flesh to ice. I held his heart as it sped up in fear and the warmth begin to fade like a spring sun losing it's tenure to storm clouds. I could not pull away nore did I want to. This was heaven. To truly touch upon another's essence and to let it pass through your fingers like stringy wisps of sand. His heart slowed and he began to gasp, lungs taking true flight, but even then, I could not be swayed. I stayed within him as he collapsed, as others noticed and gathered, and when there was nothing left I pulled out. A grin tugged within me to hear my name in the whispered humm of the crowd that filled in wake of his passing. This would be my heaven and hell.
Oct. 4th, 2009 | 08:30 pm
And so she knelt. Moment after slaughtering twenty five men, she knelt in the gore and slicked grass of the battle. Fires burned and the war raged but all she could hear was of a soft wind pulling at the field flowers. She lifted his head and gently laid it upon her leather coated knees, the warm blood quickly filling into the valley of pressed thighs and lending a thick drip drip drip to the silence. Her head tilted back, casting tear filled eyes to the heavens. The sky is so bright, she thought. It was as though the bleached sands of an hourglass had carelessly spilled across the satin blue black of the sky. A few falling stars streaked passed, blinking out of existence without any true meaning. Tears rolled heat down her face, turning red as they mingled with the still fresh blood until neither is their own. Ever so lightly her nails moved across his brow into a matted hair line. Slowly, unwillingly, her head dropped to her chest to look at the lost prize that lay in her lap. He was still warm to the touch but she could feel the cold settling in like a long winter's snow. While his blood still flowed, she drew a small dagger from a wrist scabbard. Closing her eye, her fingers deftly found their mark, plunging a triangular shaped stiletto into the side of his neck. It slid through the flesh like water and without a sob to be heard she dipped her head down to his last living wound. Her lips sealed without tremor, she suckled uneagerly, the hot blood pouring down her throat. In it all she could taste the last few flutters of a failed heart on her tongue. Pulling back, the peace of the moment broke like winter's ice on a spring bound river. She saw several of her men standing perimeter around her, fighting back forces that only sought her head. She slid him from her now soaked thighs and pulled the unique claymore from his hand. With a single fluid movement she buried the sword through bone and flesh, thrusting it hard through him into the soft ground below. Without a breath passed she drew her own sword from it's nesting place in a foe's neck and moved beside her men, slicing through the combatants without abandon, her rage so pure that both armies staggered in her wake. Many would have lived that night had they simply not stood in her path. Mere hours later the opposing forces fled in defeat. And though she fought in battles before, not a man among her army could say she had ever simply driven herself into the thick to kill everything before her. When it all ended and the victors cleaned their spoils it took three of her special guard to pull the blade from the ground. She did not lay eyes on him again. Not when her was tenderly cleaned and dressed for the ceremony, not when the strange priestess walked the procession through the village to the beach, not when the many stood on the beach watching as the boat lazily hung in the water while a beautiful maiden burned to death willingly on his body. She was already gone without a look back on that night.
Oct. 4th, 2009 | 03:01 am
It really wasn't my fault. I wasn't out and about to hurt someone, at least not tonight. I guess it was just my luck that some cracked out punk decided that my car looked good enough to try and jack me for. Funny thing about us killer types. We tend to be well equipped. He came up behind me and jabbed two fingers into my kidney. I knew it was his fingers because he put the hand that held the gun on the hood of my car to support his sickened weight. A strangely soft voice told my ear to open the car and step away, nothing about the keys though. How amazingly intelligent this one was! He move like a marionette that was in a cloud of either as the tazer sunk into barely fleshed bone. My shirt was ripped and he had tried to pistol whip me but it ended up clubbing my shoulder. He was down in a puddle of blood and piss as I was practicing my batting swing with a nine iron on his ribs. I saw the flashing lights in time to stuff the golf club under his ground beef of a body. By the time the cop came up I had recalled memories of my childhood hamster and was curled up into a fetal position, sobbing. He looked down and saw a boy laying on the ground, gun still in hand. For my luck, it was dark enough that the stains on his shirt didn't glisten their hidden meaning. I explained to the cop with choked tears. that all I had done was tazer him when he put the gun to my head. I went on to blubber out that when he pressed himself on me I thrashed until he fell over. The cop nodded solemnly, putting a firm hand on my trembling shoulder. He leaned down and felt the body for a pulse. "Go home. This is just another gang related homicide."I was helped into my car and barely managed to keep from laughing from that close call.
Oct. 4th, 2009 | 02:35 am
I felt so tired. So sick. But I had to get out or I was going to bury myself. I went to one of the only places that I continued to frequent without fear. The club had been shaken in a tumbler and what poured out was something sickly posh floating atop the gothic and industrial layers. Strange was a kinder word for it than I usually used. Within an hour of mingling an old eye catch decided to take it upon himself to may my company. Being lonely makes any warm body a willing one. He asked me to dance. I was not expecting such attention let alone what he gave me. A slow dance. Our bodies leaned into each other in an easy sway. My lips lightly brushing his neck. No one had ever once asked me to slow dance to hard core, industrial music. I took him home and touched with a tranquil innocence. I forgot who I was, sold on such a tender gesture. There was never any sex, it wasn't needed. When I woke the next morning I found crumpled but empty sheets and had to smile. I had let a perfectly wonderful canvas go, all because he had bought my soul with a slow dance.
Oct. 4th, 2009 | 02:16 am
So I sat and watched this blond piece of meat walking around in nothing but a white shirt and pajama pants. I gave him a flat smile and told him to follow me home. He did like a good little puppy looking for a spot to bury his bone. Anyways, it didn't take but a few overly used words and a worn out face to get him into handcuffs and the harness about the bed. No drugs to get him out of his skin, nothing but steel bolts thrust in between ribs The screams bounced off the rubber ball and ripped back down his bloody throat. I stopped. "Sorry, I just don't have the heart for this tonight. But, since I've already started this, I really can't let you go. I'm going to go outside and have a cigarette, don't go anywhere." I shove a catch pan under his shaken bones. The cigarette did nothing for my mood. Neither did bludgeoning his pretty little head with a toaster til' his eye popped out. I couldn't forget that goddamn dream. I laid under that battered body and let my fingers roam around his swollen skull. No love for this on. I wanted something to cure my ennui. Those eyes that kept changing. This one's were dull and already rotting. Quickly I pulled my hand away. My eyes closed and I let the blood dribbled into the hollows of my face. Sorry boy, maybe another time.
Feb. 26th, 2007 | 04:54 am
She pulled back from the angel and laughed softly. It was a tired laugh, as though it was made of more pain than joy. “You know the power that lies in a name. The first names that we have bind us; solidifying what we are and what abilities we will attain. We are truly nothing without our names.” Slowly the darkness melted away, soft lights revealing an office like room with the boy hanging in what resembled a glass shower neatly placed in the center of view. The crimson carpet was plush and the room was decorated in a swirl of modern and archaic. Mistress moved toward the executive chair behind the desk and sat with ease. She sighed and the angel could see the thousands of years hanging on her figure. “Your name is Annas. Or should I call you Alastrina? Asima? Kallan?” Suddenly the angel screamed. It was a wretched sound and the glass around the boy simply exploded, covering his body in thousands of tiny shards. It was a horrifying sight as she dropped to her knees, wings stretching to their limit. The metal fixtures bursts from her body and wings, two scythes arched up from either wing; one sliding from the back of the other, razor sharp silver feathers slid from behind the filoplumes. From her forearms shot the stiletto spike, ripping through fresh skin. From the sides of her jaw bone pulled two simple plates to cover her jaw line. The scream ended, everything glass was now nothing but glitter in the carpet. She fell forward, exhausted in all the pain of the transformation, bleeding viscous silver and transparent bronze. The angel whispered “Annas…you found my name. I don’t know if I should thank you or curse you. They heard and now they will come after me. So much for being retired.” Annas straitened her body “Very well…I have found only one name for you. It is not the name you were whispered on that dark night, but it is the first one you took to walk among the humans. Cian. Your Name is Cian.” Annas watched as the creature before her took a very deep breath. The air became heavy and there was a low hum that pulled at the angel. She heard the voices of so many dead murmur through the air, songs of gods long disbanded in form. The room was filled with so many sounds it became like white noise and in the center of it all was the woman once called Cian. Slowly she drew in all the sound, swallowing it in one solid breath. When the room calmed and the only sound was the shuttering breath of the dying boy, Cian opened her eyes. For a moment they shone a red that cooled into a warm gold, finally fading back to that strange green. They both rested, the magic of the world having drained them of all they had to give. Annas finally stood, strength trickling back through her veins. She fetched her prize, barely breathing and covered in the very fluids that carried life everyday. Cian spoke with only a whisper of a breath, “ He won’t live. You would not have my solution and nor would the council. I will give him a proper burial if you wish though.” The angel just cradled him in her arms, wrapping the soft down of her wings about his body. The blood spread on her dress like blossoming poppies and clung to her wings but did not stain them. “ No. He will live. I will take him to Assiel.” Annas spoke, pausing to look strait in Cian’s eyes. “You are an abomination, you will wander until the days of the final war and very likely will be bound to the soil and ashes for your horrid pleasures upon this plane. I will not help you again and do not seek me. If you find need for my forgiveness, than the only thing you can do is to slow down Gabriel and the demons he’ll send.” She turned and cloaked the human in her arms, leaving through an exit that was unknown to mortals. Out in the crisp air she finally stole a glance of the boy, tears gently rolling from her eyes onto his face, washing some of the dried blood away. Annas finally looked away, the hollow of her chest hurting deeply, she cried out in her mind for her demon to hurry, where ever he was.
Nov. 27th, 2006 | 01:24 am
He paced the abandoned loading dock, the Italian leather soles earning their keep in total silence. His massive form and sleek build made him look more like a big cat that could no longer stand its cage. His name was Foras though no one that had known that name besides her knew he lived. He missed her, worried for her, and found he could do nothing to get his mind off the fact that there was nothing he could do while she tended to her business. There are few things that a demon can do to become an outcast. Demons are creatures of human emotions and revel in their extremes. Falling in love with a human or even eating one’s own kind is seen as common place. This is not to say that a demon can not be cast from its own kind, it just requires going against what is found in its own nature. In his former life Foras was taxiarhos and commanded four legions of demons at one time. He was the perfect drone of a demon; violent, ruthless, and with a passion for the gore of battle. Of the many battles, he only remembered the one that mattered and little of that. As Foras recalled, he stood his ground on the battle field and looked across at the war before him. Angels against demons in the timeless war that never seemed to give to either side. These beautiful creatures with feathers that glimmered with fresh wounds and black blood. For a moment it seemed as though the tides of creatures shifted long enough for Foras to spot a single angel standing much the same as him. Her wings spread out behind her in all their glory. She carried no weapon and fought not a single demon but gently, mournfully, walked through the battlefield. He head was cast down and she seemed only to look at the fallen as though it was her duty to help them pass. Foras watched as she moved and realized that she was counting both the demons and the angels that lay slain. He glanced to a set of six demons that had fallen upon a single angel. They were peeling the dirtied skin away from its arms to reveal a mesh of metal and flesh just under the surface. Then the limbs were pulled gingerly until the bones parted. Two of the demons worked holes in the angel with their talons until they could rape these new fissures. Never once did the angel cry out but seemed to have slipped away before the pain ever began. Foras looked back to the female angel that parted the war for her walk and he suddenly let out a cry. The sound was retching and every demon in ear shot froze for the cry to halt battle. This pause was all it took for the angels to gain the upper hand and it wasn’t long before any demon not engaged to move towards him. He looked up to those who once followed his every command and fell to his knees to accept fate. But what he saw was the single angel move before him with incredible speed. Behind her coattails all he saw was a single arch of her arm. She folded her wings behind her body to enclose him and in the warmth of those soft feathers he knew that he belonged to her and that was all that mattered. The battle raged and she kept him from his allies every moment until their retreat and when it ended the veil of wings dropped away and she fell into his arms. He cradled her like a broken bird in his massive arms and carried her with all the speed left in his body to the angel’s camp. It wasn’t until Foras stood before the guards that he looked upon his prize. What once was a shining beacon of white was now covered in a heavy coating of demon gore. He was permitted in for the angels could see that he could not be parted from her. He rubbed his shut eyes as he let the memory fall away, coming through the fog in time to hear the scream that tore across the city and hit him like a train. Foras recovered quickly and let his wings rip through his skin, taking to the sky to follow the path he had chosen in ancient times.
Aug. 13th, 2006 | 03:59 am
Stepping Out
She moved easily through the line, more like a ghost than a god. No one protests what they do not notice and she had to only look up at the door keep to gain entry. He saw those wings and even for a creature of stone such as he, tears were felt. She wore a simple silver dress that fluttered about sharp curves like falling feathers. The few that could see her for what she truly was stood in awe, some out of lust, other out of the sharp pain they felt gouging in the innards. Movement was made to the bar and a hand was laid out, ring finger and thumb tucked in, index bent down. The tender took notice and shot a look to another familiar without even pausing in mid pour. She looked to the dance floor, watching as the bodies flailed their will and gave up their essence bit by bit. Her eyes moved to look for the club gods, and settled on the small group. They were stoic and ancient and gorged themselves on the life they drew from the humans that danced. These gods made the music so much more that just beats, they made it pleasure. She felt the vampire slide up to her side, so smooth in his movements that anything without sense would not have seen. “Ah, you are simply beautiful Fallen One. And the silver dress fits you so well. Come now, give us a smile.” She turned her head, those green eyes staring through him. “I don’t smile. And for your kind, I never will. Take me to her or leave me be.” She thought she felt a flinch behind that chiseled bronzed face, but it never surfaced. He made a noise of disgust and turned, leading her through the room of people without ever touching one. As she stepped through the door the smell hit her. Blood. It was as thick as a curtain. There was little transition from the color and lights of the club to the stagnant darkness of the room. She tensed, more because the room was toying with her senses. It felt large but was filled with a darkness that could be touched. What drew the eye was a young man, maybe only a boy in a single spot light. He was tied in intricate knots that weaved diamonds across his chest and pulled his genitals at harsh angles. He was lifted off the floor, not that it mattered. His feet were pulled to touch his lower back and fastened there, just below his arms. His legs were splayed out and held by more rope that connected to his elbows. She stepped closer and regretted it. It was the boy she’d kept so long and here he was, dangling in front of her like a Christmas ornament. Her eyes fixed on the coils of rope that spun around him like art. Where it came from the ceiling it was white but on his body it was crimson. Slowly she heard the ticking, rhythmic and steady. It took heartbeats to realize it was dripping off the loops about his knees, splashing into the puddle of bloods forming under his suspended body. Laughter broke the moment. It was steady and rich and seemed to come from everywhere in the room, filling its space like a snake curling around its prey. The female voice was amazing, like liquid sex poured into the mold of words. “You know, I’ve always been a voyeur. There’s nothing better than watching as someone climaxes…and then twisting that pleasure into something of your own creation. Don’t be shy; you can touch him, though I doubt you can bring him to it again. He made the cutest sound just before he spilled his mess on the floor. I don’t like messy boys. Since he couldn’t keep it in, he had to be punished.” She found her throat, then her voice, and finally her words came tumbling after. “You know the treaty states that you can have none against their will and for this degree of use the consent must be without charm. Let him go or you will pay for your crimes under the hands of the council.” Another one of those smooth laughs slid fingers about her wings. “Oh don’t worry about that.” The woman stepped from the darkness to lift the chin of her bleeding prize. “I didn’t need charms, he came to me willingly. Tell her darling.” At her command he regained consciousness, wincing in pain but without the strength to struggle. His voice was nothing but a cracked whisper on dry lips. “I love her.” The woman let go of his head and it dropped against his chest like that of a limp doll. A light seemed to follow her as she moved towards the fallen angel, it lit her features and form as though it came from her body and nothing else. This was a gift of a vampire god, or in this case, a goddess. She was a perfect counterpart to the angel before her. Blonde hair as pale as white gold fell strait just past her shoulders, skin the color of cream that set off full blood red lips. Her eyes were green as well but they held a darkness that is only found in creatures that fell strait from the abyss. She was beautiful with power, tall and curvy, and everything that the angel was not. Her name was unknown but everyone just called her Mistress. She was what made men sweat with fear in their wet dreams, and why women starved themselves into oblivion. Mistress was a vampire of the same as the much more famous Qihael but had escaped the wrath of the hunters. However, the common ideals of vampires are not what all vampires are. Mistress whispered into the angel’s ear “I can give him to you…I can make him stop hurting you. I only want you to give me one thing.”
Jul. 17th, 2006 | 09:18 am
Loneliness?
I sat at the very top of a green hill. My robes were white and comfortably loose in a lotus position, my eyes focused between the purple sky and ivory trees. Slowly I looked down the hill. It was a strikingly vivid contrast; red blood and limbs splattered over the scene as though the artist had a violent fit. A small boy, maybe a year old, started to climb this gored mound. As he climbed, he aged wonderfully before my eyes. White blonde hair went to an autumn gold. Small features fattened, thinned, toned. When he arrived in front of me he had aged beyond my own years. His perfected body smeared in blood and sweat, a finger clung to his bare foot. When he spoke the voice was smoothed with ribbons and softened with smoke. “You know you don’t have to do this. You can just be normal, let go of the constant fear and maybe remember that love isn’t so bad.” He shifted those ever changing blue eyes down to me. “Just give it a thought. You may always be alone but you don’t have to be lonely.” With that said, he tucked his hands behind his back. I woke up, my eyes just fluttering back into reality. I rolled over in my warm bed to see the vast emptiness. Cold sheets and blankets. Not even a pillow for the head that once lay there- mine. Could this really be that sigh in my heart? Loneliness?
Jul. 17th, 2006 | 09:06 am
True Love
My head was swimming. I felt like someone had taken a melon scoop to my head. As my vision rolled from red to Technicolor I saw that he was sitting on me. It took me that long because I couldn’t feel my legs and I was sure I was bleeding somewhere. I moved my hands up to feel through my hair and realized I was handcuffed. I groaned, I was tired but I wasn’t done having fun. I still wanted to live. His breath was soft and his skin was wet. He felt comfortable against my hips. I was trying to sit up when he started talking. “You could have asked. I would have let you kill me, you didn’t have to take it from me. I have AIDS and now there’s a good chance you do too. I would have let you killed if only you asked. But no, you had to be a selfish brat. Just taking what you wanted. I knew this was what was going to happen, but I thought you would have been generous. You seem like such a nice person. Sick, but nice.” He was beginning to slump against me. It started coming back as he was talking. Maybe it was a loose knot or the fact that he was double my weight. Whatever it was I had already hung meat hooks in his chest, put zero gauge needles through his arms, and was turning to get some salt rocks and a needle with thread when I was hit over the head. He’s pulled out the heavy hooks and the needles in the time it took for me to come to. “You…should of….just asked….” My eyes were wide. The idea of him tainting me, the fact that he had escaped…and had wanted to die. I was no soaked in his thick poison, holding him close as he gurgled and muttered. I had just killed and been killed by my newest true love.
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