It Was A Dark and Stormy Night
 

Dark.  Dark that crept slowly up to me from behind, infiltrating my being,
caressing me slowly, languorously.  Dark that covered the world in a soft,
deceptively gentle blanket.  Dark that I delight in, as I laugh and dance,
glorying in the feel of magic, feet whirling, hair whipping in the wind,
letting the night take over, controlling me, seducing me, blinding me.  Yes.
  Dark.

Stormy.  Rain clouds pouring down their fury, challenging the supremacy of
the night, bending the fragile willow trees, soaking me, drenching me,
droplets of cold acid blistering my skin, but I like it, yes, I like it, and
so I dance, barefoot, on my grave.  A bemused smile plays about my face as
thunder roars all around me, joining in the chorus of the lost spirits, and
lightning crackles in short bursts, illuminating the soft wet soil under
which my dead body lies.  Yes.  Stormy.

I am dead, and I love being dead.  I love the exhilaration of courting
midnight on Halloween, waiting for the innocents to come by, yes, the
innocent ones who will be my companions forevermore.  They never fail to
come, eyes large, shining, luminous, scared but enthralled by my perfection,
for I am dead, and the dead are perfect.  There, the ill-fated one, yes,
little girl, little girl with dark curls and skin of unblemished alabaster,
walking down the road to the cemetery with your bag of candies, on your way
home.  You will be my little girl, so come to me, walk, in your gauzy
clothing your mother has sewn for you, the little princess,
trick-or-treating on this beautiful, beautiful night.  Now you are here,
gazing into my stormy gray eyes, eyes of the night, eyes of Halloween.  Will
you take my hand, little girl, will you dance with me, yes, your feet, up
and down, left and right, twirl with me, be my darling.  You're warm, and
you're soft, and as you dance, you dip and turn gently, and I watch your
lovely swan-like neck as I guide you, laughing with you.  Do you feel the
exhilaration of the dead? Do you feel the music of the stormy grave? Yes,
this is what it is like, to be dead, to be evil, to be black.  Little girl,
come, let me kiss you on the lips, drain your life from you, turn you into
what I am ƒ{ free, for eternity, to dance.  Fear me, for I feed on your
fear, your weakness, your tears, and indeed, I am to be feared.  Come, your
sweet innocent lips are on mine and I drink of your spirit, and you try to
tear away but I do not let go, I take away your being, and soon you are the
fake little princess in your silken costume no more, but instead the
princess of the night, clad in soil,  who will rule with me.  Lie yourself
down, princess, in my grave next to me, and sleep.  Rest.  For next year you
will dance with me and we will make more companions together.

Ah, yes, but it is a dark and stormy night.

 

 

Gayle--AGE 12

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