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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
To feed off the living do you need to be undead? If you do not feed upon blood, do you need to know what you feed upon?

Submitted: March 28, 2016

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Submitted: March 28, 2016





I lurk near a wall

Away from the light pouring through an open door

Slumped to the floor and huddled up

From a distance you could possible assume I was sick

Yet my focus was not upon myself

Failing senses stagger across the room

From the shadows the diminishment of a figure’s form is slowly observed

Witnessed via slow and infrequent observations of evolving change

As dust particles illuminate the twisting of normality

Pride mixing with sweat and endurance

Within the unfolding chaos the sharpened line of a redefined cheekbone is observed

Their hair half-bathed in darkness

Their eyes reflecting modernity

Closer to their memories than ever before

Mists swirling in their eyes behind the anger and repulsion

Vulgarity evident whilst I feed upon the kinetic energy of transformation

The recent filtered through the uneasiness of our encounters

The convex slowly becoming converse

The diminishment of the shape of the thigh observed as a coiled spring

The trunk of the body carved into art

A new production

I try to read the script for every Act

Attempt to read the notes scribbled into the margins as the play develops

Whilst I continue to wonder if social expectations have dictated intention

I feast upon the loss and the architecture of the newly formed structure

Sinking into the changing edges

The re-defined lines

The warping and re-configuring

Hatred continuously spits and vomits upon every morsel

Soon the teeth of a voyeur were again feeding heartedly upon purposeful erosion

The power concentrated not lost

Purity seen in the sanctity of the line

Strength as fortification

While tethered emotions seek interpretations of the sights before them

I stared at the edge of the shape pondering for too long how this affected your mind

How your mind created the shapes

The form sharpened via endurance and delight

The essence of the undertaking

Tonight I stumble and fall to the floor

Somehow tripping over my own realisations

Trying to interpret both fact and fiction

The truth blurred beyond recognition

The continuation of the changes since our last encounter is gazed upon

A moment seen as sculpture

Days observed as a myriad of heartbeats

Stories dissected by gulps of water

Encounters re-enacted as madness

Within the unthreading and reconstruction of a configuration.

My admiration anchored to perceptions of the present

Knowing I kept attempting to lurk between the past and the present

The corruption of the time devoted to purposeful intention

Sequentially observing the outline of the body

The ebbing away and the reconfiguring of form

Curious to know if they have returned to the past or if this appearance is utterly new

Blurred images devoured before they are lost to confusion

While feasting upon a shape that surely cannot exist beyond the confines of my impending insanity


The ivy growing upon a tree

A parasite feeding upon another’s recent history

A hooded figure drinking from the residue of energy already spent

Staged behind life

Played out beyond death

Yet behind everything perceived as true lurks the dark silhouette

A shape formed from the space between what you were and what you have become

The thing laps up upon the new contours and across the erosion

Like oil-laced waves crashing upon the shore

Coming in from a darkened sea that ends upon the shadow’s fall

As hunger wallows and bathes at the edges of their form

Forcing myself to wonder where this curse will lead us to next

Whilst self-indulgently leaching upon the hints of madness

The only wisdom garnered is that I will not encounter them again

Soon I sit crouched down rapaciously feasting upon a thin curved black shape

Clasping it with both hands

Dark thick residue dripping down my gnarled fingers

The final remnants of our encounters


I feasted upon all that I could

When I could

Now I will only be haunted by the ghost of the flesh

Regurgitations of the perceived apparitions

Opaque cuts from a butchered wraith

Obscuring all that was left behind

Until confusion all that remains

Blurred images of their body

Obscured by a collage of thin curved black shapes

The darkness becomes more prevalent every time the shapes are pondered

Until the sharply defined blackness and insanity’s invitation to join it in the darkness will be all that is left

The memory of them lost

The transformation is soon forgotten.

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