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Byraftian Lovecronic: Lord Byron + HP LovecraftIt was Hallowe'en, and I sat at my desk, illuminated by a single spluttering candle, struggling to write. On such a night I dare not venture out, for something old and unspeakable whispered of secret pagan rites and the festering grave. The very air seemed to hum, as if imbued with wicked potency.
The hour of midnight approached and the night grew darker every minute. Stillness descended like a vast creeping monstrosity. The trees ceased to creak and the clouds hung like stationary spectres - consorts of the repulsive yellowed moon. Yet the wind howled louder than ever, screaming through the shuttered panes.
In horror I watched as the candle's flame began to fade, as if being extinguished by some unseen force. Glancing at my watch I realised it wanted but one minute until the hour of midnight.
I felt panic welling up, swallowing my senses. In a fit of terror I reached for the drawer of the writing desk, drew forth a box of matches and struggled to rekindle the waning flame. But alas! F
ScrapI laid down my words like snakes in the grass. Her hair perfumed the rooms with lavender and cumquat. Incense drifted out from under her eyelids – silken blue-grey. The heath hung in frost, the logs had burnt low. Daylight broke through the night like a knife through the breast. Bloody dawn spread through the trees, as tears from the lungs.
Blue Flower (Under 200 words)I wake in a glass corridor lined with dark spiders, shifting in and out the gliding shadows. Silk curtains flutter in the breathless air like opium smoke. The sleek fabric of the mouldering seats lies still and bleak...
Soon he will slip from the darkness, his breath flowing from his lips like intoxicating incense; his clear eyes sharp, gorgeous, deep and unfathomed. With his black gloves, bound tight around his supple wrists, he will sweep and turn like the ghost of a dancer, drifting across the rich carpets to stand, silent, by my side. He will wait, calm and quiet, emanating aesthetic perfection from every lineament of attire and visage; an ethereal, haunting, fragile beauty drowned in wealth, dressed in matchless taste, indolent in luxury. From his lapel will flourish a lone blue flower, appearing like a crystal of water caught in the frosts of frozen time. It shall shed no scent over that of his skin; warm and delicious. His irises will show new worlds, foreign and strange,
Vengeance! (Story start ~ 6,000 words)"Get out! You should not have come today." the merchant hissed.
The visitor smiled, but made no reply.
"You should not have come, you should not have come! -- Ah, I am destined to meet with madmen. Do you know how many guards are searching the streets for you? Over thirty! I saw three of them pass by not less than ten minutes ago. And how is it that they did not see you? How is it you passed them by unnoticed? Verd, you cannot always rely on your good luck and other's ill fortune to see you through. One day you will be caught and you will be hanged. And if they catch you here, then they will hang me also. Then what of my wife and what of my children? Widowed and fatherless, left to starve and die! Go Verd. Go, if you have any mercy or any decency. Go, I will seek you out some other time when it is safer."
The visitor laughed and seated himself in a vacant chair opposite the merchant.
"Horace, you ask good questions but leave no time for answers. The guards are searching for another man
Rubbish Story/Chapter/Idea/ScrapI suppose I learned that I and the world were two different entities when I was very young. I used to gaze from my window at the world outside, all the streets bustling with people. I wondered what it was like to live...
The house was cool and quiet. I was a corpse: always pale; my lips tinged with the slightest shade of colour; my eyes green and faded like the ocean under mists. I was pretty in a frail anemic sort of way. In short, I resembled a porcelain doll.
I was told that the world would not be mine until I reached sixteen. I was fifteen now, and the temptation was tantalising, yet monstrously fearful. I read many books. I savoured the melancholy flavours of Byron, Burns and Poe. I wrapped myself deeper in the enchanted web of an evil fairytale. My reading became darker, I sought ever to sink beneath the surface where some dreadful secret lay. I branched into philosophy and psychology. I came to view mankind as little more than clockwork machinery with chemical hearts.
may as well buy another packcollapse, and breathe into the carpet:
sunday mornings are not
for falling apart, but damn
the amphorics, this
is not an atmosphere.
you fell in love like you always
wish you didn't, made all their
smiles replaceable, interchangeable,
fell asleep with shadows and kept
drinking, just letting yourself sleep
with blue pills
and tried not to scream.
(keep this image in your head:
fire and nectarines, a sudden jerk
of realization, inspiration
breaking your neck and leaving you forever
breaking bones is not so different
from breaking hearts - it's all about
the leverage, the angle, the mode
(and at least it wasn't personal;
it can color in your own guilt
for starting lines and never ending
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