Frankenstein Poetry Novels & Stories

Her Pov: I have no idea how long I’ve been drifting through this suffocating darkness, the silence pressing in on me like a living thing. Then, just as a shiver runs down my spine, I catch the faintest movement—a shadow shifting within the black void. My breath hitches. “Who’s there?” I whisper, my voice barely breaking the oppressive stillness as I strain to make out the figure lurking in the dark.

A voice whispered softly, too softly into his ears and although he didn't hear anything, he could make out what it was: WHEN THE FIRMAMENT BECOMES FILTHY WITH BARBARIC BATS, AND THE GROUND BEGINS TO REVOLT BY SPUTTERING OUT APPETIZING RED LIQUIDS AND ENTICINGLY GALLING SKELETONS, SCAMPER OFF TO YOUR SECURE NESTS, DEAR HUMANS, AND INHALE EVERY FEELING OF PROTECTION. FOR WITHIN THE SPACE OF TWO HEARTBEATS, THE "SANCTUARY" FEELING WILL BE LOST

Rowan’s erasure grids fold reality—white voids swallowing tendrils. Kayo’s chains bind massive limbs—foxfire burning restraints hot. Remy’s claws rend exposed joints—gold sparks flying. My **Abyssal Canticle** sings—voice carrying divine fury, shattering debuffs, swarm screaming real. Julian’s fangs drain main veins—vampire horde climbing body like ants on titan. Kōjin’s hammer projection slams divine—molten impacts cratering carapace. Monks’ light spears pierce eyes—blinding galaxies.

My sclera are fogged with the dead, bleeding souls of my raven boys, don’t touch the gale of my lungs, for I breathe out ruin and rue. Hold me if you want beasts to devour maidens if you want mountains to quiver like breasts and avalanches to crush, my death blow rips through hearth and home, I am thunderheads, I am hurricanes, never touch your doom, don’t look at the banshee as I clean your death robes, for I gnash, and I devour, and I suck men dry – don’t love the diseased, madwomen are witches. We are not meant for shadowlight kisses, curses

Glowing their crimson, gloomy glimmer in the dark Red flowers, red flowers… The new end, the new beginning, they mark I wondered where this voice came from. The poem sounds like a dirge but is sung with a child's voice. I hope that this is not the voice of a child. I do hope that there are no children in this sinister place. Before I managed to ponder this any further, they dragged me out of the cell and pricked my neck with some injection.

The light from the failing lamp casting a ghastly flicker over his grotesque features and distorting them all the more. Ishaq could barely breathe, knowing it was soon to cease altogether. His head fell back, compelled by some unseen force, making his neck as weak as the stems that held the floral crowns in the fields. He stared at the darkness swelling above him, hoping beyond hope that this was a cruel dream he could suddenly awaken from. "I yield my wrath against He that destroyeth all and is unconquered. Strike his heart with his own fire and frost. All innocence return to the earth, and sate my eternal hunger."

The whole book was in Russian but one of the poems had writing in the outer margin: I still recall the wondrous moment: When you appeared before my sight As though a brief and fleeting omen, Pure phantom in enchanting light. In sorrow, when I felt unwell, Caught in the bustle, in a daze, I fell under your voice’s spell And dreamt the features of your face. Years passed and gales had dispelled My former hopes, and in those days, I lost your voice’s sacred spell, The holy features of your face. Detained in darkness, isolation,

I continued, keeping my eyes fixed on my pale, skinny fingers clutched around my knees, “and goes back to reading. But then there’s a tap on his window, and a raven flies in. He asks it questions, and it only answers with one word: ‘nevermore.’ He asks it about Lenore, but still its reply remains the same. “The man asks the raven if he will join Lenore in heaven when he dies, if their souls will be joined once more. At the raven’s answer – you guessed it, ‘nevermore’ – the man says, well, ‘be that our word of parting’ – he wants it to leave. It is a reminder of death, yet it sits, unmoving, watching him as he dissolves further into madness. Death remains with him, as it does with us all.” “G

He began to recite a section of the poem word for word. “But first, on earth as vampires sent, Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent Then ghastly haunt thy native place And suck the blood of all thy race There from daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life; Yet loathe the banquet which perforce Must fee thy livid living corse Thy victims ere they yet expire Shall know the demon for their sire, As cursing thee, thou cursing them, Thy flowers are withered on the stem.

Compare it to tamed animals now free from humanity's illusion, like as if we were new to each other’s arms As I stand here on the boat, saving our lives, paddling our bodies to safety, scorching the winds of foolishness, I can catch the breath you breathe upon my ear where there were words that lacked superiority and sense. I can feel the glimpse and soft moves of your fingers to my arms, these touches similar to a cold, an unmoved corpse. I can feel your eyelids close to mine, as if it was swaying like the tides of the morning sea. I can feel a beat and a call for air to wish for more flame, but you kept turning the knob. But it never stopped blazing in the forest of interventions and river