Bloody Mary
I stood by the mirror.
Lit my flame and chanted: Bloody Mary.
Then I peered into the depths.
Each time I said the name my faint reflection gazed at me.
I feared that nothing else would happen.
Then I looked again, and saw his horns.
Long, wicked teeth and empty eyes. Dressed for the altar.
Took the pale hand of my mirror-self.
Beneath, my stomach dropped. Knees buckled.
I fell down and shouted, then the guards rushed in saw her apparition
—eyes red, antique gown, hands full of power.
Souls rushed to the draw, her torch upraised in curse or prayer, perhaps
— the men cried out in terror, and collapsed.
Genesis
The night air held a rancid and repulsive scent, ash drifting on the lazy breeze, acrid smoke billowing and obscuring the hunter's moon partly visible above in the cloudless sky. The obscene smell was enough to make one gag, to make weary eyes run rivers of sooty tears and set sniveling noses running. Only the barest whimpers and the slightest wheeze, accompanied by the symphony of sizzling and burning flesh, could be heard over the sound of hard heels slapping on cobbled stones.
Ever since her first execution, that delightful maiden voyage so long ago was now one of her most precious memories, her trusted Torch had burned ever more fiercely. The immolations were a necessity at first, to cleanse the realm of heretics and the unfaithful, but more and more the ritual leaned deliciously towards indugleance.
It was truly a wonder to observe and delight in all the fascinating ways the fire affected the body; from the initial agony of searing the nerves from the skin, granting the doomed a short-lived reprieve, to shifting fluids and shrinking husk. Then, with the expulsion of one final foul and gurgling breath her trap would slam shut, imprisoning the unwilling spirit - stench and all - to an eternity of subservience in her incandescent vessel.
Her ritual concluded, a confident stride swiftly took Mary away from the enormous pyre, her biggest yet, Torch sputtering and spitting merrily at her side. Sated for the moment by the latest addition of tortured captive souls, she raised her magical companion to cast the gloom ahead in vermillion hues, and disappeared into the night.
Artwork by Marc Simonetti
Poem by lorepunk.eth
Featured in
Bloody Mary
SPZ
Featuring
Bloody Mary
I stood by the mirror.
Lit my flame and chanted: Bloody Mary.
Then I peered into the depths.
Each time I said the name my faint reflection gazed at me.
I feared that nothing else would happen.
Then I looked again, and saw his horns.
Long, wicked teeth and empty eyes. Dressed for the altar.
Took the pale hand of my mirror-self.
Beneath, my stomach dropped. Knees buckled.
I fell down and shouted, then the guards rushed in saw her apparition
—eyes red, antique gown, hands full of power.
Souls rushed to the draw, her torch upraised in curse or prayer, perhaps
— the men cried out in terror, and collapsed.
Genesis
The night air held a rancid and repulsive scent, ash drifting on the lazy breeze, acrid smoke billowing and obscuring the hunter's moon partly visible above in the cloudless sky. The obscene smell was enough to make one gag, to make weary eyes run rivers of sooty tears and set sniveling noses running. Only the barest whimpers and the slightest wheeze, accompanied by the symphony of sizzling and burning flesh, could be heard over the sound of hard heels slapping on cobbled stones.
Ever since her first execution, that delightful maiden voyage so long ago was now one of her most precious memories, her trusted Torch had burned ever more fiercely. The immolations were a necessity at first, to cleanse the realm of heretics and the unfaithful, but more and more the ritual leaned deliciously towards indugleance.
It was truly a wonder to observe and delight in all the fascinating ways the fire affected the body; from the initial agony of searing the nerves from the skin, granting the doomed a short-lived reprieve, to shifting fluids and shrinking husk. Then, with the expulsion of one final foul and gurgling breath her trap would slam shut, imprisoning the unwilling spirit - stench and all - to an eternity of subservience in her incandescent vessel.
Her ritual concluded, a confident stride swiftly took Mary away from the enormous pyre, her biggest yet, Torch sputtering and spitting merrily at her side. Sated for the moment by the latest addition of tortured captive souls, she raised her magical companion to cast the gloom ahead in vermillion hues, and disappeared into the night.
Artwork by Marc Simonetti
Poem by lorepunk.eth
