This is what I get for drinking absinthe before bed time. Enjoy. 
She wasnt sure when she decided to fuck the Devil.
There could really only be one sort of option at that point, and she knew it--knew it far beyond any shadow of any time, any fractional doubt. The Devil was going to be hers. Hell be damned.
He entered her room just before midnight. The room was small, almost barren, decorated in the haute-macabre of the austere bordering on black-laced decadence and clove cigarettes smoked as incense. Two tiny candles burned atop a tiny, stylized altar to one of Clive Barkers myriad, nightmarish creations. The candles barely lit the room, and as he entered, they guttered and nearly extinguished themselves.
Shadows danced about the room like gothic gremlins.
Mansells Lux Aeterna roared through the air.
She rose to meet him, her gloved fingers clasping her black satin robe to her throat. He stepped closer, a rush of being, amorphous, horrid, lurid, diaphanousshe let the robe slip from her fingers, falling past her snow-white skin, falling to the cluttered floor, falling at her bare feet.
The mauve gloves were the only defense decency offered her pale body as she stood before him, the gothic gremlin shadows dancing. He reached for her. He touched her. She shivered. His fingers caressed the gentle curve below her navel, slowly moved upward, fingers tingling her flesh, her breath suddenly bated.
His fingers touched one of her nipples.
He smiled.
She screamed.
Afterward, when there was nothing left, he blew out the one still-burning candlethe other having been extinguished, engulfed by the gremlin shadows sometime during the dance that she had so longed for and that he had given her.
He blew that last candle out and left.
In the darkness--Mansells Lux Aeterna on repeat, still roaring, driving, building--the faint, almost stale clove smoke incense failed to cover the bitter, metallic tang that was beginning to permeate the air. Gentle currents, not unlike the gentle curve beneath the navel, driven by the fading vorticity of his passage, by the reverberations of the climaxing orchestration pouring from the two little speakers near a black, sticker-covered laptop, increased the entropic manifestation of that new, bitter, metallic tang, mixing the scent with the stale clove smoke, the cloying smell of expensive perfume and the reek of sweat.
And as the darkness became complete, as his passage, vorticity, candle-extinguishing, followed him from the room, as Lux Aeterna reached its last crescendo and descended abruptly into the final quiet sob of a few lonely notes, she simply, silently, ceased to exist.
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Some of my other short fiction can be found at Liber Dementia, in case you're interested.
She wasnt sure when she decided to fuck the Devil.
There could really only be one sort of option at that point, and she knew it--knew it far beyond any shadow of any time, any fractional doubt. The Devil was going to be hers. Hell be damned.
He entered her room just before midnight. The room was small, almost barren, decorated in the haute-macabre of the austere bordering on black-laced decadence and clove cigarettes smoked as incense. Two tiny candles burned atop a tiny, stylized altar to one of Clive Barkers myriad, nightmarish creations. The candles barely lit the room, and as he entered, they guttered and nearly extinguished themselves.
Shadows danced about the room like gothic gremlins.
Mansells Lux Aeterna roared through the air.
She rose to meet him, her gloved fingers clasping her black satin robe to her throat. He stepped closer, a rush of being, amorphous, horrid, lurid, diaphanousshe let the robe slip from her fingers, falling past her snow-white skin, falling to the cluttered floor, falling at her bare feet.
The mauve gloves were the only defense decency offered her pale body as she stood before him, the gothic gremlin shadows dancing. He reached for her. He touched her. She shivered. His fingers caressed the gentle curve below her navel, slowly moved upward, fingers tingling her flesh, her breath suddenly bated.
His fingers touched one of her nipples.
He smiled.
She screamed.
Afterward, when there was nothing left, he blew out the one still-burning candlethe other having been extinguished, engulfed by the gremlin shadows sometime during the dance that she had so longed for and that he had given her.
He blew that last candle out and left.
In the darkness--Mansells Lux Aeterna on repeat, still roaring, driving, building--the faint, almost stale clove smoke incense failed to cover the bitter, metallic tang that was beginning to permeate the air. Gentle currents, not unlike the gentle curve beneath the navel, driven by the fading vorticity of his passage, by the reverberations of the climaxing orchestration pouring from the two little speakers near a black, sticker-covered laptop, increased the entropic manifestation of that new, bitter, metallic tang, mixing the scent with the stale clove smoke, the cloying smell of expensive perfume and the reek of sweat.
And as the darkness became complete, as his passage, vorticity, candle-extinguishing, followed him from the room, as Lux Aeterna reached its last crescendo and descended abruptly into the final quiet sob of a few lonely notes, she simply, silently, ceased to exist.
-------------------------------------
Some of my other short fiction can be found at Liber Dementia, in case you're interested.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
...and this, good sir, is brilliant. Well done!