Playing with the 100-word format. cruising through the alphabet on a single theme. Can you tell it's rainy and dismal north of the 49th? Goth must have originated in a similar climate.


Alone, I shiver in this ruined monastery. The icy flagstones absorb my breath. Abandoned and the cobwebs waft in vaulted emptiness.
He haunts my vision—that’s all I’ve left of him, my master, my beloved maker.
The final stage of my initiation, the agony of the change barely abated, yet his countenance was filled with revulsion. Then he was gone.
It matters not. When I regain my strength, I will seek out others, and they will love me for the gift I can now give them. They will never look at me with disgust, and they will never leave me.

###

Between

I linger on a threshold... this perfect moment of becoming.

Such sublime agony it is to be suspended betwixt absolute loss and the feverish influx rushing to fill that abhorred vacuum. Here is the source of all Passion.

And I can sustain this infinite moment forever, moving lucidly between immortality and mortality.

The Noble race eschews me for choosing thus. The mortals fear me (What don’t they fear?). Flesh tempts me backward. Blood beckons me forth.
I refuse them both even while the pain ravages me. I feed on anguish.

Those ignorant masses—Noble or corporeal—call me Abomination.

###

cruel muse

do you have another, pet?
i nod.
let me see it.
i hand him the rumpled sheet. it won't be enough, and i will have to sacrifice. yet, i keep
hoping: maybe this time...
(no! let it never be enough! drink, love, this is my blood...)
a deal was struck long ago in the darkness of a midnight gallery. i crave success. i long for failure.
so far, it hasn't been his blood. i always fail.
he inhales languidly and words fade from the page.
delicious, my dove, but...
yes. i know.
my shift slips to the floor.