Vintage Satanism

While she's painting her face with red lips, and thick lashes, the roar of the world is passing by. Her breasts are held high by under wire like metal clasps holding her together, and her waist cinched in the classic hourglass figure. Her idol Marilyn would be proud. As she curls her hair the only thing she burns is her soul. Her personality slowly slipping away while her baby blues look only to one thing.

Satan.

He is her everything. 

Butterfly

Sometimes when I was a little girl, I would wonder if caterpillars got lost. I would see them in the gardens in the spring, and then they would disappear. I asked my mother about it and she smiled, saying that they never got lost, they were only hiding. She took me back out to the garden that evening, and up in a tree she pointed out the chrysalis' under one of the willow's branches. I wondered what would happen to them after this.

She brought me back out to the gardens a few weeks later, and I saw my first butterfly's. They were monarch's. The yellow of their wings matched the roses. But there had been one small cocoon that had not erupted with life. My mother said it was a late bloomer, and that it too would become a beautiful butterfly with time.

Although with the spring, came the storms. Only a day after I saw the butterfly's, the worst storm I can remember came through. My mother held me all through the night, because I couldn't sleep. I wasn't scared, but something was very wrong, and I could feel it deep in my bones.

The next morning I went into the garden, while my mother was still asleep. The storm had come and gone with little to no damage to the garden's, other than the occasional branch snagging on the rose bushes. Everything was fine until I came to the old willow where the chrysalis' had been. Lightening had struck the willow, splitting it in two. The branch that had held the chrysalis had smashed into the ground, and was buried deep in the earth.

All I could think about was that one small cocoon that now would never know life again. 

Dead

And so the skeletons came forth from the bodies of men, and they led themselves unto the seas, where they lived and they built with the stones of the old world, a paradise for the dead, and the dying, so that they could be received back into the arms of their Creator.

Yet that day would never come, and so they waited and waited, for it was all that their weary bones could do. They waited forever, and forever more; and when the day came that they could wait no more, they passed on from this realm, into the nothingness and solitude of eternity. 

The Carnival

The carnival leaves town...

The carnival always leaves town...

It goes away, far, and far.

When the carnival leaves town, the children...

Die.

The carnival leaves town,

No laughter.

The Ferris wheel is rocking back and forth.

The corpses fall from the seats,

Egad, the children stuffed on candy apples,

They've grown fat and sluggish.

The town stops for the carnival.

The lights all dim because everyone's gone...

Gone to the carnival.

Night after night.

The faces blur together, and the clowns laugh themselves to sleep.

Walk down the boardwalk

With the nice music and the nice people and the nice treats and the nice rides.

No one wants the carnival to leave town.

Cotton in my mouth.

I cannot scream.

When the carnival leaves town. 

Between Silences, A Hannibal Fanfictioin

The good Doctor Lecter stood at attention in his cell. Some would think he was waiting, and perhaps he was, but for what he wouldn't have told you. Behind him were walls beaten with the blood of the lunatics who came before him. He covered the stains with sketches, most of the dark memories clinging to the paper with charcoal and imagination.

One stood out. It was above his bed. A drawing of the very Special Agent Starling. Of course removed of her usual dank clothing and instead in lovely silk as he imagined her at a dinner party, or perhaps a ball. Perhaps even in the late of night...

Alas. Thoughts like that were far too exuberant for the time being. Lecter had easier things on his mind. Like the taste of blood, or a well cooked meal. How he longed for simplicity, and oh, how it eluded him. He sat, as to get his difficult mind together, and he looked down at a blank page. The dimples and coarseness of the paper reminded him of Starling, just briefly.

If she wanted, she could be just like the paper, abrasive at first, but with work and time, a masterpiece. A forever elusive masterpiece.

He settled in with the charcoal in his fingers, digging into his pores as he worked steadily, still quite nimble, but not as he was in his youth. Something that escapes us all with time. His mind was thankfully quiet as he slaved, getting the edges and the tenderness just right. Yes, some things escape us with time. As his hand slowed and he lifted the page up, he needed to make no adjustments for it was just as his memory preserved her.

His little Mischa looked back at him from the paper.

Lecter's thoughts were still, like standing water that would soon attract mosquitoes. And so they came and he couldn't swat the thoughts away.

What could he do with the picture? Surely he wished to hang it up next to Starling's portrait. They did share a similar quality, that they could do few things to anger him, and each of them in their own ways did settle his cacophonous mind at one time or another. So we waited for a while, as he could with time on his side. The answer came. Surely, yes, Mischa deserved many places on the walls. Entire walls themselves.

So Lecter slowly tore the portrait to shreds.

Why he had drawn it, was debatable. It was aggravating to think of that time in his life, he much preferred the still water of a lake to the rapids of Mischa's memory.

He ate the paper slowly, and with a soulless appetite.

As he settled once again in the middle of the florescent lights, he heard the footsteps, he could not mistake the sound of the cheap heels that Special Agent Starling wore for such occasions.

Another session, he presumed.

A dissection perhaps?

“Hello Agent Starling.” He smiled as her heels stopped in front of his cell. 

Mannequin

He stood in the window, displayed for all the depraved and open mouthed gawker's.

Their bodies, if you could call what the onlookers had bodies, were distorted, flabbergasted with rolls of fat, blemishes not only perverted their faces, but their backs as well thanks to the chemicals in their food; the hair stopped not at their heads, but crawled down their backs like tarantulas and pervaded their privates. Let us not forget the blame, these lazy spectators loused around with screens in front of them, hunched over while they grew more desperate and disgusting.

HE however, was stunning. With his youth, untainted, his body molded and handcrafted better than God could have, man had made him, chiseled him like Adonis to adorn the fabrics that deceived the populous. On him, because he was perfect, they thought they could be as well. I knew better. The social normalcy's didn't apply to either of us.

The inside of his mouth was white like the rest of his chalk stained skin as he said, “Come to me.”

I went inside the store, the fluorescence blinding my skin while I approached the broad stoop he stood upon. Watching me, he scaled my advances, and opened a palm to welcome me in an embrace. We surrounded each other's waists as we laid upon the platform for all to see. Becoming a living thing, we did as all living things did while the glances of the crowds gazed in on our passions.

Taking me in his lap, his nail-less fingers pulled up my skirt and revealed me with my MINOR imperfections compared to the masses. Kissing me tastefully on the lips, he bruised the skin of my neck as his fingers entered me. Penetrating me, the audience cheered, usually only seeing this on their TV's and Computers.

I did not cry inside that day, but merely pitied what the world had become that day.