Inspiration

It's always odd to me when inspiration strikes. It's an interesting sensation when your mind suddenly decides to squeeze the kiss of a muse through the brick wall that has held your imagination captive for so long.

So here's some more writings.


An Untold Text (continued.)

Of Lamia

I furrowed my brow at the title. Was I about to embark on an early version of some sort of fantastic fiction? Perhaps a rewrite on the classical mythos?

I write these words in the hopes that some will come to understand the horrors that have been unleashed upon the world. To understand and, I pray, put an end to them. I tremble even as I write this, for it was my own foolish actions that have given birth to the evils I will speak to you about. Such a wretched being am I. Could I, I would take the full measure of her

wrath upon myself, but alas, all I can do is offer up my mind to those who may stand a greater chance.

I sat back and rubbed my eyes, glancing at the clock on my desk. As the last sentence of the translated text echoed in my mind, I could hear the well-to-do's leaving the theatre, their exclamations for the brilliant masterpiece they had just watched echoing up in the night air. I frowned again, standing walking to the window. What was this that had been sent to me? It made no sense. Such fiction was not written in the time period this book seemed to have come from.

I felt a queerness as I looked at the leather bound book, the light of the candles at my desk putting on a dance of light across the yellowed pages. I wished that Mister Irewood had lived nearby so that I might have inquired as to the origins of the book, or at least how it had found it's way into his possession. Several scenarios played in my mind as I tried to rationalize the existence of the writing. Perhaps this was some touched individual's attempt at macabre humor.

A soft knock at the door stirred me from my thoughts and I quickly moved to my desk, tucking away the translation and the book together. I gritted my teeth, for I always felt brief rush of anger whenever interrupted in my work. I crossed the floor to the door and opened it, trying my best to dawn a sleepy smile for the person I knew to be on the other side.

She smiled sweetly and stepped in, " I hope I'm not interrupting anything, darling."

I closed the door behind her and embraced her, " of course not, Madeline."

She was dressed in her work attire, that of a serving girl. Her corsett was laced low, allowing her cleavage to show, and her dress had the sides cut up to the knee to let any who desired to gaze upon the fishnet stockings that clad her legs. Black curls spilled down around her shoulders and face, framing the blush-painted cheeks and crimson lips.

She kissed me, the kiss of true lovers. There was no falsehood behind her gesture, no implication of charity or masking true feelings. Her lips, painted for the pleasure of others, were for me alone. I had read hundreds of texts over the past ten years, most older than my grandparent's grandparents. Some were composed of madmen, others the learned verse of praised scholars. In all such readings, I had never amassed the knowledge required to tell me why such a precious creature as Madeline could learn to love such a frail husk such as me. Why question the luck I had been blessed with?

As she let the kiss finally break, she glanced to my desk, looking at the paper wrapping and twine crumpled and pushed to the corner. Her eyes then crossed to the stove where my small iron pot still sat with some of the tonic I had brewed for the pages of the book. I cursed myself silently for my sloppy job of cleaning up after myself.

" I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were working tonight," she shifted her weight towards the door.

" Have I ever asked you to pardon yourself for my work?" I said with a forced smile, still slapping myself mentally.

" But you hate to be interrupted..." she began, taking a step this time.

I grabbed her hand, " and too long have I been away from your presence, darling."

Her smile let me know my words had the desired effect. She stepped away from the door and crossed the room to my bed. She sat on it's edge, reaching down to unlace her boots.

" You work, my love. I'm afraid a night in these boots has wearied me plenty. I won't disturb you." she said, smiling as she looked up to see my eyes riveted to the dark line of her cleavage.

I smiled in return. I would have to take her generosity. As deeply as I wanted to hold her in my bed and make love to her, I had to devote my attention to the work ahead. There was a nagging, as well, as I tossed over in my mind the words that I had translated.

She finished undressing under my gaze, then climbed into my bed and within moments was asleep. I turned back to my desk, drawing out the book and the paper that held my translation and continued my work.

The hours burned away and I felt feverish. The words I read struck immense disharmony within myself as, in my mind's eye, I painted pictures of dark rituals, satanic dealings and the torment of the writer. More than once I would sit back and rub my eyes, to feel the perspiration on my brow. I had never encountered such writings. Legends had been a longstanding part of human history, but the legends written, even those by the ancient Greeks, were never so personal. The authors depictions of the scenes were of such dark detail that I felt my stomach churn at parts.

I watched in horror, though such a word does little justice to the
horrid feelings that coursed through me, as Lamia kissed the child upon
the neck. His innocence drained away with his life and I could only
imagine the agony the boy's parent's would endure upon learning of his
demise. What twisted my entrails all the more was the unforsakable
knowledge that I had brought about this perversion.

Otherworldly creatures born of unholy practices. Children stolen from their parents as they slumbered to be murdered.