Friday, October 26, 2007

Gothic Romance

Created from a prompt for a writing exercise.

The lilies smelled like lust, their purity stained by her accomplishment. Claria had always smelled like lilies, and in some perverse way, it meant she had always been perfumed by death and mourning.

John knew that his heart should have been as heavy as his poetry always professed it to be. His girlfriend was dead. The pallor of her skin was not sun-deprived or powder-induced—it was authentic grave-pale.

She had loved death, and wrong as their families had always found it, he’d never wanted her so badly. Lucky bitch was embraced by Thantos, and he was still stuck in the mortal coil, one kindred less than he had been two weeks ago, when he’d gotten her suicide text message.

Five months of shared Poe and Lovecraft, and she equated John with K-Fed.

Selfish.

The lilies on her half-open coffin taunted John—just as she had when she said she’d let him put his hands around her neck, then pretended she hadn’t, and swore it was more meaningful if they suffered the burning passion for a few weeks longer before they sated their sinful hunger.

It wasn’t fair. The rope had gotten more action than he had.

But there—in the second row, and smearing her black eyeliner, was Claria’s friend, Tammy.

Drawing in a deep breath, John wondered if she would smell like lilies, too.

1 comment:

Rachel said...

Oooooooh! How delightfully halloweeny!