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libramoon@diaspora.glasswings.com
libramoon

night's pages
{patchwork narrative} a flash #fiction serial following the story of a child #vampire, the eternal child #monster working out that existence

Child
https://nightspages.blogspot.com/2013/10/child.html

Back in my mortal days, when they did they would say
I was a sweet-looking child, so very many years ago.
I don’t appear in mirrors now;
I wouldn’t know if that sweetness persists.
If you saw me, a scrawny child of indeterminate gender,
unkempt, ill-clothed, filthy like a refugee,
would you wish me gone, wish me well, feel terror?
You see such children on the streets. I do.
Refugees from domestic wars are a secret no one keeps.
When I take one, I feel a kind of blessing, a kindred irony.
I don’t turn them.
Damnation is not for me a means of making friends.
I feel them, smell them, make an altar of my senses.
A sacred feast of sacrificial lamb’s blood
ought to require deep honor, respect.
I do befriend them, to give them that last memory
of innocent love.
We walk together to some secret place, a shared adventure.
If it is their place, they enjoy the ritual of inviting me in
to their sanctum.
I listen to woes and dreams that I honestly bond with.
I give what I am able, take what little treasure they possess.
There are too many people this world regrets.
Too many extras that won’t be missed, whose destruction
was never in doubt.
My kind can only cull a few.
People, though, you are clever.
You find ways, devise games
to destroy and self-destruct at all gradations of cruelty.
Is the monster in the demon or the man set free
of mortal restraint?
Or, does mortality constrain?
How large a body count can one mortal lifespan support?
Can we include those who are not directly killed,
but slow poisoned by soul-burning hatred?

#halloween

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libramoon@diaspora.glasswings.com
libramoon

night's pages
{patchwork narrative} a flash #fiction serial following the story of a child #vampire, the eternal child monster working out that existence
http://nightspages.blogspot.com/
7.10.13
Beginnings

Memory’s child, forced to hopeless obliviation long before
a chance for clarity, sense of agency,
for a self to determine.
Undermined.
Violation, violent broken boundaries;
a monster fearsome,
because grotesque beyond comfort.
A twisted face to pin on evil tales, to
spit out sobbing poisons, paint in shades
concealing
lies that harden into revelations,
legends, the stuff of nightmares
and deflected shame.
A child wants the safety of hearth and tribe,
of happy fairytales, everybody well fed and
tucked to bed, caressed in love that hugs away
the slavering beast.
A child wants, a busy mother wants,
a charming serpent, cowering servant, honest merchant
wants. Voice of sympathy, soothing harmony,
innocent pleasure.

Sing for your supper; patrons toss coins to amuse,
rapacious, their cultured appetites.
A darkened Church (candles saved for opulent ritual
-- none may steal this God’s fire), blood bond, sacrifice.
Taste of copper and iron.
We are of the Earth, Her mighty Sun, of
tides and moonbeams and molten seas.
Not love --
chemistry, explosions, immortal fire.

I have wandered, blundered forth as a leaf in the wind,
as a pebble scoured by erratic waves, as
a child of Man loosened from mortality.
If there are stories I could tell my mind
to feel safety in dreaming, to feel
a possibility of home,
I have yet to find them.
Still, I listen for a voice to believe, for a song
that might feel like hope,
or finality.

One person like that
libramoon@diaspora.glasswings.com
libramoon

https://nightspages.blogspot.com/2013/10/autumn.html
night's pages
{patchwork narrative} a flash #fiction serial following the story of a child #vampire, the eternal child monster working out that existence

Autumn

She is brave.
I am not.
When first I am aware of her,
she is in frenzied battle against
monstrosity of momentarily feral
young men intent on feeding
gang lust.
Her energy ignites me.
I feel forced to act in her behalf.
There are too many for me to drain.
At my size despite gorging capacity, '
I could take maybe the two smallest.
I can leap, grab, suck quickly on each,
turn off their power with
my bite’s gifted vacation to oblivion.
I embrace her, hold close, escape through the ether.
We emerge on a secluded walk of river beach
I frequent, a memorized retreat.
She is shaken from the attack, shivering,
unable to clearly speak.
It is clear she has no fear of me, no trepidation
or awe or confusion about my role in this adventure.
She looks to be a bit older than I do, at that awkward
interval of rounding into womanhood unevenly.
She is very young.
Still, there is an ancient aspect to her countenance.
Perhaps it is shock, a distancing from emotional trauma.
But I feel her basic strength, a will made for
resiliency.
She makes eye contact, clings to my eyes with hers
for comfort, for a locus of calm.
She makes grateful introduction, offers her name.
She is called Autumn, season of my Lady’s fall
into Her fate.
I feel this Autumn’s presence, essence, so strongly.
How is this mortal child meant to intersect
with my destiny?

davehiggins@diaspora-fr.org
Dave [Diaspora FR Account]

Joe Coffin Returns, Part One by Ken Preston

“Preston continues his fusion of modern British underworld thriller and vampire tale, showing the aftermath of a human victory without either losing tension or parachuting in a new threat.

“This is the seventh book in Preston’s Joe Coffin series. Your opportunity to be surprised by previous volumes might be drained beyond this point.”

More thoughts: https://davidjhiggins.wordpress.com/2022/07/29/joe-coffin-returns-part-one-by-ken-preston/

#vampire #horror

Joe Coffin Returns, Part One by Ken Preston

Preston continues his fusion of modern British underworld thriller and vampire tale, showing the aftermath of a human victory without either losing tension or parachuting in a new threat. This is t…

One person like that
thierrybayoud@pod.g3l.org
Thierry Bayoud

Anecdotique : Friedrich Wilhelm Murnau, n'ayant pas pu obtenir les droits d'adaptation du roman de Bram Stoker intitulé « Dracula », décida de baptiser son vampire Nosferatu, littéralement « le non-mort ». Son film est sorti en 1922, un quart de siècle après l'oeuvre littéraire.

#nosferatu #vampire #anecdotique

heric@diaspora-fr.org
Héric *

franceinfo Culture : La romancière américaine Anne Rice, autrice du célèbre “Entretien avec un vampire”, est morte à 80 ans

Anne Rice

La romancière Anne Rice, célèbre autrice de romans fantastiques, est décédée le 11 décembre 2021 des suites d’un accident vasculaire cérébral, à l’âge de 80 ans. Son fils Christopher l’a annoncé sur sa page Facebook et Twitter : “Anne nous a quittés presque dix-neuf ans jour pour jour, après que mon père, son mari Stan, est décédé”.

https://www.francetvinfo.fr/culture/livres/la-romanciere-americaine-anne-rice-autrice-du-tres-celebre-entretien-avec-un-vampire-est-morte-a-80-ans_4878575.html

#fr #vampire #litterature #annerice #autrice #auteur #roman #fiction

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