Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Oktober the Eleventh: Her Sonata

Moonlight, a little exhaustion and a lot of fed-upness with the way vampires have been ruined for me inspired this short short. Maybe I should get some sleep.

Peace, Mari


Her Sonata

By Mari Kozlowski

 Points of fire, pins of cold hit her skin, a hail of screeching light. The burning moon. She pulled back beneath the ledge into shadow and the pain stopped gradually. The blisters sucked back into her hide and sealed themselves, disappearing. Smooth again, as smooth as it ever was. She hurt somewhere deeper now, where she couldn’t scratch off the crusted edges. Elle remembered when the moon was her friend; a fellow hunter, a guide. The memory scalded her, too.

“Let’s see who’s out there. Show me the ripe.”

Wrapped in dark, soft cloth, noiseless as she went. 

“Show me.”

  And the rays fell where they would, leading her to the fruits of the evening.

  Under a bench, a slim beam of silver caught movement. Ragged hands clasped a bottle; she could smell the vile contents already. The outline of a bare head shifted and fell against the painted wooden leg, relaxing. Sleeping.

 A never-be-missed-- perfect.

 Elle slithered her way to the dark spot and fed, slurping the last goodness out of the catch; elevating its final moments, making it useful as it had never been in life till now. She smiled and wiped her mouth as she glided out and down the stone stairs toward the street, nodding thanks at her co-conspirator.

 They had an easy alliance, those days. Before the curses that chained her to daylight and the sun’s foolish rays. 

 Tonight the urge was strong, nigh irresistible: her throat dry and belly aching, she needed to hunt, to move and roll over grass and stone in the shivery grace of cool beams. Her body shook with it, with the hunger to wind herself around her prey and draw tight, waiting for the exquisite taste of their dying breath, the luscious pump of life and soul; and to hiss out her triumph after. To race her hot muscles under the pale face of night, bathed in its delicate nuance. She wanted. And wanted.

 And wouldn’t. Her hunger had grown through the year as she watched night by night, for the ones who had captured her, cursed her with their thin blood, their pathetic, day-yearning, golden-cursed blood. She wouldn’t grant them the bliss of death while they slept, hidden from the day, even though their foul alchemy had swept the fear of day from her chemistry. But they’d taken more, and it would be paid for in full, conscious terror. Ghoulish child’s nightmares that they were, they’d die in slow and poisonous agony beyond any they had power to inflict.  

 She watched the places they met.

  They’d return, in time. They had taken sweet night forever, and she’d serve them the same.

 And they’d learn that the older, darker beings they would prey on for laughs were not given to humor, or disruption. It gave her a thin pleasure to think on… Idiots! Horror wasn’t having your throat slit by dull fangs. Horror was being eaten whole and digested while some of you still writhed in free air.

 Years or centuries fell and she still watched, breathing the perfume of night on her tongue.

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