I wish I could go beyond the gate to venture forth in search of delights now denied me. I stand here, hands gripping wrought iron, my head full of memories that once were, or perhaps never had at all. But the cemetery, final as it is, won’t let me leave.
“Kiss me,” he said, but Joseph knew it was pointless. There was no way Eliza crushed on him, the way he crushed on her. Still, he practiced what he would say just in case she forgot what a dweeb he was. “Kiss me,” he said again. The mirror said nothing.
*Still working on my 50 words story experiment, while mulling over whether to do Nanowrimo this year. Got a few ideas, but I’m beating myself up over the possibility of failure. On another note, I’m experimenting with a new blog, Paulie Rocks , which will revisit rock music videos from the 70’s – 90’s, and into the modern age. Right now, I’m doing a 31 days of Halloween Jams feature, so please go give me some views and likes, please*
50 Word Story #23
The sign on the door reads “Victim’s Advocate”. It should say “Dead Victims Advocate,” because unless you are a ghost I can’t help you. My social skills are lacking with live people. I don’t do the internet, clubs, or grocers. I do church however. That’s where the dead ones are.
The vampire slid into bed next to the girl. She smiled in half sleep and curled up against him. Despite the age difference of hundreds of years, it felt perfect to her, their bodies touching each other like this. She offered her neck to him. He didn’t drink. He cried.
In the house of heroes, there is no glory. Only wasted men with hollow eyes whispering tales that grow vague in meaning as the years fade. Memories live on their tongues, stories dying to be yielded to the younger generations. Yet no one will listen. Technology is the new God.
We’ve been adrift for days, out here in the far reaches. Our charts and compasses do no good, so we tossed them into the churning sea. We know there will be no voyage home. No one has been on the other side where faeries dwell, other than the stolen children.
*just me telling a story in exactly 50 words*
The band plays on. Long haired singer, no longer twenty, the lines of experience now covered by a beard, belts out a lament of Glory Days. The drummer keeps the beat after all these years, guitarists still rocking back and forth in usion. Nothing has changed, only the public’s whims.
Note: The image for this post is the Uk rock band, Inglorious. Singer Nathan James is one of my fave modern rock vocalists.
I remember how we used to be, beings of light and energy, moving through realms of man, spirits in the cosmos, eternally enlightened. And now look what we have become. Pale wanderers helplessly seeking what we lost, stumbling blind, third eye closed, not even blinking, waiting for us to awaken.
Under skies the color of amber, the priest walked across the ruined landscape. “And lo, behold man, sons of God,” he mumbled to himself. “Laid low in his wickedness he wrought destruction in my name.” His feet kicked up blackened sand as he walked. “Behold his life, ashes and dust.”
I used to be the reason for his happiness, Donatella thought. She looked down at her feet. Joey lay there, passed out on the floor, beer can still in hand, cradling it to his chest like a long lost lover. Donatella shook her head, bit back tears, and shot him.