“But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retarts: Already with thee! Tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,”
– Keats (Ode To A Nightingale)
Writing is Immortality
The cursor on the screen still blinked, the story now finally inked. Centuries later, she’d put pen down to paper, her guilt now finally in print.
The agent on the phone, to the writer unknown, outlined a few edits to the tale, but all were spoken to no avail. The writer was adamant that not a detail lay dormant of the truth she had harboured too long.
If only she hadn’t done that which was wrong.
The night of publication in a state of satiation, the writer turned up in her best. As always she was seeking her quest. Immortality she had found by the blood bitten pound of her flesh. But this no more fresh, she’d known it wasn’t enough.
The guilt it had always been tough, yet this was not which had ailed her. More immortality was the thought that had paled her.
Long lived her body and mind pretending she was still humankind, but her fangs would always reveal her though her victims tried oft’ to appeal her. Now bloodlust and beauty weren’t enough. She was hungry for the more reverent stuff. So she’d written the story of her first lover’s glory and demise at the scratch of her teeth, the truth screaming for a relief.
The book was now bound and out on the ground with the words of a tale terribly old (classed as fiction the humans were told). It reached number one on the lists. “A story so dark with such twists.”
She smiled to herself and her money. To a vampire this was incredibly funny. The way she had chosen to confess was a shortlisted literary success. Her name was now written in time with the secret unburdening of her crime. The immortality of writing was worth more than biting to the vain and villainous vampiress.
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