Frankenstein Poetry Novels & Stories

Cent continued prodding, “Why is it so silent here as if you are the only one working for my dad aside from Gukasho?” This time, Frankenstein did not turn his head. Instead, he continued walking as he replied in a deep voice. The air around them vibrated as if it was being buried against the cold soil. “Work. Alone. Master. No noise.” Every word he uttered was dragged from his stiff jaws. The emphasized words were not due to his arrogance but because he could not utter a straight sentence even if he wanted to. Cent saw lengthy sewn marks from both of his cheeks to his humongous-size mouth as if his face was being connected by a mere thread.

Oh, thankyouthankyou and all your everlasting Saints, for that. The female revenant was unclothed, and mournfully frail, her gaunt nakedness livid in the shadows: a crippled young mother who once—head shaven and body broken—had exhaled her final breath into the mouth of her asphyxiating infant as she cradled and rocked it and sang it to uttermost sleep. The stark sight of her slammed their hearts like the crush of a battering ram. Along the bike path the lampposts buzzed and flickered.

I glared at Roxanne, “Born of shadows, the child was torn. A breath denied, her soul reborn. Blessings of old, now turned to ash. A cursed resurrection, a haunting’s flash. Does it make sense to you, now?” She retreated, fear evident in her eyes. “How did you know that poem?” “Because it was always about you and I, Roxanne. Born of shadows talks about you. I was the child who was torn. A breath denied was me. A soul reborn was you. A cursed resurrection, a haunting’s flash, is you and I.” She shook her head vigorously and muttered to herself. It seemed almost like she was losing it. “Now it makes sense. Now it makes sense. But how, how did you wake up?”

Where the wave of moonlight glosses The dim grey sands with light, Far off by furthest Rosses We foot it all the night, Weaving olden dances Mingling hands and mingling glances Till the moon has taken flight; To and fro we leap And chase the frothy bubbles, While the world is full of troubles And is anxious in its sleep. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand. Heinrich sighed, confused. "Why am I acting like I got broken up?" . . . -------------------- Poem Credit: W.B. Yeats

Frank laid out a war-table on the oak: the half idol, the Valente journal, his own black notebook of translations, a mason jar of rock salt, two black iron nails, a squat bottle of stoup glass with a waxed stopper, an aspergillum that had seen too many baptisms, a carpenter’s pencil, a roll of white cotton cord. “Not all devils,” Frank said, “are diaboloi. Some are places with teeth. Elementals is the polite modern word for ‘the world is older than us and sometimes it bites back.’ Water is a good servant and a vindictive god.” He tapped Valente’s line: speculum sacculus. “A mirror-pocket is a mouth—sulcatum—cut into the skin of the world. This thing isn’t in the water so much as it makes wat

Were they afraid I might fall to my death, or were they hoping for it? I was certain it was the latter. I spread my arms wide and with my eyes turning red, I opened my mouth, allowing the winds to carry my words to them down below Let it rain, hail and brimstone, My dead bones has risen, I’ve returned, the unforgiven dead. By ash and bone, by blood and blight, I call the darkness to take its bite. Let sickness rot their flesh and breath, Let every dawn bring closer death. Let fever scorch their brittle veins,

"I guess there's no purpose activity it. You are a pointy individual, and you probably did it with a lamia already, I assumed you'd see through the American state as well, which is why I need to win you over. however, that vampire ne'er hid the very fact who she is, right? And carrying a parasol, anyone who understands vampire tradition can know specifically who she is." It appears as if she gave up winning over Raven, therefore she began to talk out everything in her mind. "Hum, Rav., have you ever detected of [Frankenstein's tale]?" "Um. I scan it before, and I still can recall a number of the details." it had been a world-celebrated unhappy story. The young genius Victor Frankenstein disc

the other Lydia says in my mind, her voice distant yet firm. I grit my teeth and reach forward again. This time, I let myself fall into the light completely. It feels like stepping straight into the heart of the sun. The heat devours everything. I can’t breathe, can’t think. My body feels like it’s breaking apart. My scream never leaves my lips, swallowed by the blinding brilliance. My skin dissolves, my blood turns to mist, my bones shatter. The pain is unbearable, but somewhere deep within it, I understand—it isn’t the light destroying me, it’s the poison burning out of me. Every piece of darkness Baron left behind is turning to ash.

| {I ripped the heart out of your sacrifice} {Unholy Communion body of Christ} {I ate the heart I ate the head I ate the miracle} {Like a praying mantis without the prayer} {With only prey} {I called you a hoax in a bottle} {when I vomited you out again} {A jinx, hex, haxan, vexation} {So why am I the one with phantom pain?} | The Ravens amass into one giant monster with a proboscis and begins drilling through. | {Tears of blood, tears of blood} {Will the sadness ever end?} {Tears of blood, tears of blood}

I, of all people, know how poking around in the past can open up old wounds. We pulled into our apartment complex. We go up to our apartment and begin packing. Vincent wanders around looking at everything and eventually ends up in my room. “Nice room.” He notices my framed poems on the wall. He reads one aloud, “Darkness's Kiss: Every night it's the same dark dream. And it always ends with me in a scream…” It is a poem that I wrote about a vampire finding its mate and surrendering to it. He looks at me, “Goth phase?”