Author’s Note: This is me venting out my frustrations through writing disturbingly smutty metaphors exploring a Dr. Frankenstein-ish sort of philosophy. This story features gore and sex. If that offends you, GO AWAY, PLEASE.

Monster

Written by Kay

In the truest event, our Creator was our downfall, for the Creator ruling the sun and moon and blood and flesh was indeed inherently flawed. The Creator did possess all the tools and knowledge yet his creation resulted in . . . imperfection.

monstermonstermonstermonster!!

She knew, just from the broken, bloodied feathers snowing gently down onto her skin that she, the inorganic angel of mottled wiresveins and rushing oilblood, had shattered. But the eyes of the scientist glow in that bright, hypnotizing electrical blue and seduce her soul from the glory of fantasy.

They wage a war every night, as the battle field between the bodies diminish and feral growls tear at the sultry night. Love dies as screams escalate in the smoky hills of industry, and night ...

screams; limbs torn here, eyes gouged here
all for the sake of creation; oh, sweet angel wings,
fan the muggy heat to yonder paradise garden

... sighs with quiet recognition. A requiem of death and soulless birth weeping from Pan’s lutes sweetens the dank, dark cavern.

prisonerprisonerO!theprisoner!!

Cold, cold, cold scientist. Jailer and breaker, seducer and lover.

The dark is so heady that even defenseless worms glow neonwhite on dampened boulders. The silence is maddening, the solitary so very lonely. For days and years and seconds did the scientist entrap her in a borrowed casket of skin. And though not truly alive, she is aware and knows how to think like one of the dead.

The wires of her life are desolate and smothered with dust. The ever-still draft freezes her in her hyperbolic chamber/limbo.

what am i, i am dead, i am two three fourfivesixeighteenninetywomenmen. what am i, the ghost of malice and repressed lust. touch me, let me taste the sweet saliva of warmth -- i’m so dry, body and soul, and whispered with age and rot and time

Love was hardly silence, but rather was it the touch.

A warmth almost intangible molds her wires together painstakingly, shuddering with forbidden arousal and rampaging resolve.

The scientist never remains away for such an eon, but always returns, seeking virtual warmth in the juncture separating flesh ...

and horror of horrors;
the monster of the god; the lover of the scientist;
built upon the glorified wings of saints, yet sullied
with fornication, ravished in tombs of
lower and upper ancestors forgotten

... and fantasy.

Then he rouses her from her sleep with a throbbing kiss. The sleep had deadened her nerves and reason. Now nothing but animalistic rage and carnal passion remain. He had calculated from the beginning -- planned for her to ache with longing at night.

horrorhorrorohfuckmeharderhorror!!

It’s a mutilated casket: scalp half-torn, limbs weakly attached, and eyes barely seeing. It’s the body of a hellish whore of shattered dimensions that forevermore seeks wet heat in a haze of bloodlust and maddened desperation.

bitch whore! on your knees, monstrous whore!

Cold, cold scientist -- yet each of his thrusts offers the hottest hell of delight so that ...

she screams more more more more
more more more!

... her tears rain down upon the world.

It was wrong, so wrong.

But as he pushes her against the cold metal slate, she cries the raven’s cry. Her soul throbs with need as his fingersicicles trail across her fleshy face, down her half-sown lips, and cups her ravaged breast.

It's the rampant hunger.

Bloodlust blinds the world. And she turns, dragging her glittering nails across the scientist’s stomach.

monstermonstermonsterMONSTER!!

What miracles does this earth birth?

Coils of steaming intestine splatter down on her half-sown stomach as wolf-like howls shatter her will. But he doesn’t stop, so desperate to reach his nirvana through a damned flux of putrescence corpses, and he continues his thrust as salty drops of ruby-red hail assaults her willing tongue.

His thick, throbbing shaft pierces through the very walls of her poorly constructed organs, and yet, as the demons anticipate his coiling organs between their hungry teeth, the scientist never falters.

White, white face. Pale, pale pain.

And as the scream of bliss strangles his throat, the scientist collapses on top of his own creation, defeated and in disgrace.

It's the rampant, monstrous hunger -- both the scientist and she know in that very last fleeting moment. It is the monster of their dreams, the deusmonster whose dreams mime fantasy.

monstermonster . . . monster . . . which monster sings the song of doom?

finis.