Lost Lost – A Circular Sonnet – March 23, 2016

Tomb small

Lost lost in the darkness you’ll walk
where evil weaves its awful web
black the night as the bell tolls ten
scratch at the door, yes, wail and weep
the door is locked, you cannot leave.

Lost lost in the black sepulchre
roam the dank catacombs my fair
you sought his love instead of mine
intrigued by his exotic eyes –
the door is locked, you cannot leave.

Lost lost they’ll never find you now
I could have told them – but will not
you would betray me for his charm
now you scratch at the old stone walls
the door is locked, you cannot leave

Lost lost in the endless darkness
the door is locked, you cannot leave.

© G.s.k. ‘16

(5) Words: | WEB | LOST | BLACK | SCRATCH | LOCK |

DOOR Template Instructions

The Secret Keeper’s – Weekly Writing Prompt #29

The Cloister in the Castle – Gothic Horror (Introduction) – March 17, 2016

castle

What could have prevented his departure, a cool breeze maybe a mystic wave, surely no bright lights no vulgar acclaim nor any new miracles.  She asked herself without hope of receiving  an answer, nothing really could have kept him there.  Once the watch had announced that it was twelve, and in the plaza the clock bells rang the hour. The deed was done.  Midnight. He was no more.

In the sky hung the gibbous moon, how silly to think of croissants and tea but then sillier still to think of him.  He or any other.  Her new pale sisters sang matins.

What could have prevented his departure, a cool breeze maybe a mystic wave … here in these dark corridors, surely no bright lights.

Reading from her Breviary she harmonizes with her sisters. The shadows creep closer with each “Ave” in the cloister.  Her soul was consumed with the memories of him, his smell, his breath near her cheek as he helped her dismount from her steed.  His hands upon her waist.  She would have been more pleased if his hands had been on her bare skin.

Of course he was not destined to be hers.  He was yet another sacrifice to her new master, his destiny had been written from the moment he’d been chosen to accompany her to this place, once he’d seen her face he was doomed.

The Mother sang the last “amen”.  One of the clock.  The Father behind the grate welcomed her to the cloister where she would be immured for eternity.  Her husband by proxy had died of the plague.  Her father had confiscated her husband’s treasure for his needs and closed her,  his own daughter up in the convent and no one but the young knight knew where she was.  And now he too was gone.

Once in her cell the night fell upon her and her soul was at last taken by the demon who inhabited the cloister.  Her father, the Duke, had paid his debt and his wealth was assured.  He’d sold out his son-in-law and his own daughter to the demons of the night … and one day, though he didn’t know this, he too would be consumed by the demons, but unlike his daughter, his would be the pit of eternal fire … hers the living death of the night creatures.

© G.s.k. ‘16

Weekly Writing Prompt #28  Week 14th March 2016

DOOR Template Instructions

(5) Words: | WAVE | COOL| PREVENT | BRIGHT | WATCH |

The Novitiate – Gothic Horror – March 16, 2016

pulled by clouds- Brooke Shaden

– Brooke Shaden

The glare of the sullen sunset beamed upon the lone novitiate who would be ordained to the night, in the cathedral-like structure dedicated to Lady Nyctophilia – patroness of those who lurk in the gloom. Ironically, she’d been quite the eristic and really very clever in her negation of vampires and the sort, yet there she stood, looking like a puppet with irregular strings attached about her head, ready to be pulled into the very heavens.  One couldn’t deny however,  that she really wasn’t quite herself.

Going back just a few hours before, she’d walked into the Metropolitan to meet her young man, a handsome swarthy gentleman, *oriundo from Sardegna, or so he’d said.  She sat down at his table and he asked the waiter to bring him the lady’s drink and the soda siphon.  She’d gotten used to his quirky idea that he should personally splash her drink from the soda siphon. This time however, the siphon had been sophisticated and contained a subtle drug.  She drank her drink and gradually began to feel detached from herself.

He led her out of the hotel and that  was the last time anyone from her set would ever see her.  He put her into a Rolls Royce which actually belonged to the “Lady Nyctophilia”, known to everyone else as the Countess of San Severino.  She was driven to the Cathedral of the Night.  Once she arrived, she was disrobed and a tiny tattoo was placed upon her just above the erogenous zone known as the mount of Venus.  What followed would terrorize you or I, but she was beyond terror, in the Rolls the swarthy young man, had made passionate love to her and she was now his, in body and soul – as testified the two tiny marks upon her neck.

© G.s.k. ‘16

 

*oriundo – native (of a place, especially a native of Italy but living abroad)

Photo Challenge #104 and Wordle #101 “March 14, 2016”

1.Glare 2. Nyctophilia (a love or preference for night, darkness) 3. Novitiate (the state or period of being a novice of a religious order or congregation. the quarters occupied by religious novices during probation. the state or period of being a beginner in anything. a novice.) 4. Structure 5. Tattoo 6. Eristic (a person who engages in debate; conversationalist. the art of disputation.) 7. Erogenous 8. Irregular 9. Adjust 10. Lurk 11. Siphon 12. Terrorize