tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59067167284665752332024-03-13T07:50:35.150-04:00The Soulless SeriesKathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.comBlogger82125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-55861922942059058552023-03-29T20:50:00.004-04:002023-03-29T20:52:26.635-04:00December 22, 1906 – Melbourne<p></p><p style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier; text-indent: 0.5in;">People spill
onto the streets as the humans prepare for drunken celebrations and warm houses
filled with love. But we do not show affection with spiced cakes or ale. My
mother takes my hand, guiding me through the hallway. Opening the door to my
room, she shows me the two human women that sit on my bed patiently. </span><span style="font-family: courier; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></span></p><p style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier; text-indent: 0.5in;">Marcella kisses my cheek as she whispers, </span><i style="font-family: courier; text-indent: 0.5in;">Merry Christmas, my
son</i><span style="font-family: courier; text-indent: 0.5in;">, and leaves me to my bidding. Their hearts beat like hummingbird wings
cutting through the silence. The smell of their blood will soon stain my
sheets. </span></span></p><p style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier; text-indent: 0.5in;">A very delectable gift indeed.</span></span></p><p style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium; text-indent: 0.5in;">They know what I am. Marcella has told them. But humans are so naïve.
Easily intrigued, they want to see for themselves. They are not afraid of what a
monster with black eyes will do to them. But they should be.</span></p>
<br /><p></p>Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-15123632343824317992023-01-02T14:47:00.000-05:002023-01-02T14:47:05.563-05:00May 11, 1698 – Venice<p></p><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; line-height: 150%;">Flour hangs
in the air like a fog, rolling over her every curve. Her laughter, as light and
airy as the dough in her hands, drifts across the table toward me. I forget
myself here. In her kitchen. Among the dried flowers and hanging herbs, the
rice and the barley, she smiles at me as though honing my inept culinary skills
has given her some small hint of purpose.<br /> </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; line-height: 150%;"> She does not ask why I only meet her at night,
why I do not try the recipes she teaches me, or why I do not sleep when I lay
next to her. Her silence serves me well since the answers would corrupt our
time together. And I do not wish to expose my true self to her. I do not intend
to end the life of such a beautiful creature. Particularly not after she has
given me such an immense gift. It is not love but benevolence. Somewhere amidst
these dried cranberries, she has given me that fraction of myself I believed
was gone long ago. The part that is capable of seeing humans as more than sustenance.</span></span></div>
<br /><p></p>Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-46520427668690309742022-12-11T20:40:00.004-05:002022-12-11T20:45:34.420-05:00February 12, 1415 – Budapest<p style="text-align: left;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> I remember my
humans looking up at the stars. The ship cutting through the waters as the cool
wind lapped mist onto my face. The sky and the horizon each stretching on with
no end and no beginning. Sailing across the, beautiful and cruel, inky abyss,
seeking the peace that I did not have. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> I remember scribbling them in my journal, plotting the night sky
as though it might reveal something of my course, my future. But nothing among
them pointed to this. No hidden message telling me of the horror that would
find me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> Now, I look upon them, not with questions but with serenity. An
ever-constant reflection of the life I once held. I am comforted by the light
they bring into my dark world and the stillness they offer amongst the screams. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p></p>Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-14037014959368078322022-11-09T20:47:00.007-05:002022-11-09T20:47:37.830-05:00May 22, 1997 - Kula <div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> Hidden
in the lush atmosphere and surrounded by the thunderous churning of the sea
below, most people find this quiet series of pools mesmerizing. Tonight, this
place is especially enchanting, but not for the obvious reasons. Instead, it's
the softness in her smile that captivates me as she watches the waterfalls
cascading, churning up bubbles that burst against our skin like tiny, delicate
kisses. It is her ability to be so completely immersed by her fascination that
entangles me in an inescapable desire to watch her relish in her surroundings.<br /></span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> It is the way the moon shimmers across the
water, dancing its way from one tiered pool into the next as the illuminated water
delicately spills into itself like the tattoos along her spine. Paw prints,
simple and calm, tumbling down her back and tempting me to trace my fingers
over her skin and feel the chills rise on her flesh in their wake. To hear her
gentle gasp at my touch. Alone in our isolation, with no souls to hear us, I
watch her because I simply cannot force myself to look at anything else.</span></span></div>Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-37009668586111571182022-10-17T10:55:00.002-04:002022-10-17T10:55:00.170-04:00May 12, 1893 - Chicago<div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier; text-indent: 0.5in;"> The
World's Fair brings them here, like moths to a flame.</span><span style="font-family: courier; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: courier; text-indent: 0.5in;">They come in droves, expecting to see new and
interesting </span><span style="font-family: courier; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span>inventions. They hope to see things that will forever dazzle and
expand their minds and long to witness the mesmerizing lights that illuminate
the dead of night in hopes that it will brighten their bleak, little life. They
want to feel more significant than the small towns they have traveled from. Far
from their families and the safety net of familiarity, they seek out the
exhilaration this city has to offer.</span></span></span></div><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> But the excitement they will find is not the
thrill they have sought after. It will be swarming with trepidation and fright.
They have stepped off of the trains, full of wonder; however, they are not
prepared for the predators that linger in these crowds. Not just me, but humans
as well, are waiting, patient and calculating, in the shadows here. So many
sheltered folks, ignorant to the ways of a boogeyman, pouring into the streets
and directly into our paths. There is no reason to fight off the other monsters
here. There are plenty enough victims to share. After all, there are so many naïve
people here, and like the moths to a flame, they too will be consumed.</span></span></div>Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-70809169343296826322022-10-09T10:28:00.001-04:002022-10-09T10:28:18.985-04:00October 20, 1419 – Beijing<p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"> The chill of the floor is comforting as I let the rigid
stone soothe my aching muscles. I close my eyes and listen to him pace along
the wall, allowing my brief reprieve. The physical assault my body as endured
over the past six hours is more than a human could bare but it is imperative to
training oneself to outlast and outsmart another vampire during combat.<br /> Marcella watches me sternly. Her displeasure with, in her
eyes, my flagrant display of weakness and ineptitude radiates from her
severely. Her anger with my inadequacy brushes against me in a most abrasive
way, urging me to my feet. Pulling my protesting body from the cool floor, I
stand; not because I believe I could do better but because I know that I must
continue to improve. It is not possible for me to win today, only a fool would
hold on to that false hope. No, I will fall again today, and I will fail
tomorrow; however tomorrow I will be better than I am today. Tomorrow, I will
not fall so easily.</span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p>Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-51798250441477219412022-09-15T09:11:00.001-04:002022-09-15T09:11:34.480-04:00November 17, 1520 – Athens<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> There
is a wolf in the hen house. I do not mean that figuratively, but quite literal.
A werewolf and his son tend to a repair in their chicken enclosure, unaware of
the creature watching them from the edge of this dirt road. The father looks at
me curiously. It is unusual for someone to be lurking around in this place, at
this hour. Staring, he knows something else is different about me but is unable
to discern what that something is. Not all werewolves believe we exist. Not all
have met us in the dark of night. Some are naïve to the distain they should
feel for vampires.<br /></span> Despite his unease, the
father smiles at me and asks if I need shelter for the night. There it is. An invitation.
My chance to enter his home and silence every beating heart. It would be easy
to follow him inside and let his beast meet mine. And I would win. However, it
is better to let him live and keep his entire pack from the knowledge of vampires
altogether. So, I smile, and I lie smoothly about my destination and intentions,
and I continue on into the murky night. I will have to find another to die in his
place. But that really will not take too long. After all, there are so many
others in this world that are deserving of such a violent death.</span></div>Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-19354694730026281462022-08-30T19:11:00.004-04:002022-10-21T20:58:50.914-04:00April 17, 1999 – Whitefish <div style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> C</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">olors flicker
across her skin delicately, reflecting the ever-changing scene that dances on
the screen. The darkness of the theater only helps to highlight the brilliance
of the copper flecks that gleam in her eyes and, like a spot light designed just
for me, the light cast from the screen is only enough for a vampire to see the way
it shimmers across her face.<br /></span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> Everyone is watching the screen, including her. This is why
everyone is here. This moment; the climax; the anticipation. Their hearts beat
quicker. With widened eyes, they watch as the either the antagonist or
protagonist will meet their end. But I watch her. With one hand lingering in
the bowl of popcorn, still frozen in place from when the movie pulled her from
this reality, she stares with locked eyes. The suspense intensifies and her
other hand takes mine. Her touch is firm, yet still tender as she seeks me in the
dark. Watching her makes me smile softly. This is where I want to be always. Beside
her, watching her illuminate the darkness that will always surround me.</span></span></div>Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-3368958304106858162022-08-26T07:05:00.002-04:002022-08-26T07:05:27.444-04:00August 1, 1482 – Berlin<p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">I am not sure why I came
here tonight. What I thought I might be able to find. But this is not the world
I belong in. These are not my people. These creatures are no more than animals
that have been blinded by their own ferocity. The life of a nomad has an
inescapable allure to it, such freedom. No rules, no restrictions, just greedy pleasures.
However, creatures like us need limitations to keep us from swirling down a
rabbit hole of monstrosity that would surely take over our entire being. What
good is freedom if what remains of you is simply a hostile husk of who you were?<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; text-indent: 0.5in;"> There must always be lines that one is not willing cross. And there
were lines crossed tonight. The f</span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; text-indent: 0.5in;">ear
that is reserved for consuming blood should never be for taking someone’s body.
But they did. And </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; text-indent: 0.5in;">I
saw her, that little scared human. I saw her, not just her eyes, full of pain
and begging for my help, but her. She was seeking relief from me, a predator, because
the monster holding her down was so much worse. </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; text-indent: 0.5in;">But I had nothing to offer. There were far too many nomads and her
life was already over.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; text-indent: 0.5in;"> Her last
moments were a torture she did not deserve and I could do was wait for my
opportunity. Wait for the sun to lock them inside. Waiting, my ears were audience
to the horrors happening in that house, until the sun was moments away from
cresting the ridge and spilling into this valley. Then I lit that house on
fire, knowing one way or another, every vampire inside would be ash by
nightfall. I cannot make it home with the sun shining so brilliantly, so I hide
under this canoe on the edge of the yard. It shields me from the sun but not
from the smell or their screams.</span></span></p><br /><p></p>Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-66409342661513089492022-07-24T22:11:00.001-04:002022-07-25T08:47:29.161-04:00July 18, 1415 – Budapest<p style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;">The water is cooler than I expected but that is
helpful. It distracts me from the fire raging inside. I swim slowly, watching the way
the moonlight ripples over the waves my body makes as it pushes through the
water. I had come here for seclusion so when a red-haired woman approaches with
a wide smile, I am less than thrilled.<br /></span></span><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier New;">She asks if
I would like company in the water and on a typical night, I might have. But
this is not a normal night. Tonight, I will come one night closer to gaining my freedom from all of Marcella’s supervision. I tell the lady the partial truth; that I do not want her in
the water; that I am, in fact, avoiding people like her. I do not tell her that it is because I made a deal
with my mother that I would not bite anyone for an entire month to prove that I am capable of such control, or that I am
two days away from completion which is too close for a tart like her to ruin all my progress. Offended by my brashness, she leaves me alone to swim in peace, never realizing how close she came to a real-life boogeyman. As the clacking of her shoes disappears into the night, I continue paddling about letting the water comfort me once more and reminding my burning throat, it is only two more days.</span></span></span></p>
Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-40209789373999102182022-07-07T14:30:00.002-04:002022-07-07T14:30:00.161-04:00July 2, 1980 - London<div style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> The sound of the music
quiets, helping me to hear her heart beating in her chest. She stares at her
drink but she can feel my eyes on her. A shy smile spreads slowly across her
face as she slides her drink closer, leaving a wet trail across the bar. A thick
drop of condensation rolls over her fingers and drips away but I do not watch
it splatter on the floor. My eyes only see the way she licks her lips,
preparing for a drink. It only lasts a moment, but I notice everything about
it. The way her tongue glides across her soft lips only makes them lure me
more.<br /></span><span style="text-indent: 48px;"> As
she raises the glass to her lips, a light redness flushes her cheeks and I realize
that somewhere deep inside she has already accepted that she will let me take
her home. That she will let me uncage myself, freeing me to give in to my most
carnal needs, the same needs every man has. But what she has not realized is
that there is another need inside me. Like an animal raging inside, it makes my
heart pound and my throat burn with hunger. And although she does not realize
it yet, that need will be satisfied tonight as well.</span></span></div>Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-79606527726531702862022-07-01T14:21:00.001-04:002022-07-01T14:21:00.199-04:00February 11, 1618 – Madrid<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">The cobblestone street
graciously allows the rain to pool into a dark little puddle between the stones.
Barely bigger than my palm, it must suffice as a mirror as I assess my injury.
The freshness of the burn on my cheek fill my nostrils with charred flesh.
There will be no permanent damage to my skin but for now, the rawness of my
exposed muscle and scorched tissue sizzles against the cool night air.<br /> </span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> Marcella will not be
pleased. The most essential part of attacking a local is that they die. They can
run; they will scream; but they must die. They do not pull a cross from their
bag and smash it against my face. And they certainly do not escape, like this
one did. My fingers rub over the unevenness of my otherwise flawless face. It
is not the pain that causes me to groan but the situation I now find myself in.
I supposed I will have to disappear for at least a few months, possibly longer.
Perhaps, we will go to Cairo. Marcella has been wanting to visit Egypt anyway. </span></span></div>
Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-91634588068985925772022-06-22T14:00:00.003-04:002022-06-22T15:21:45.057-04:00December 23, 1994 – London<div style="text-align: left;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"> <span style="font-family: "Courier New"; text-indent: 0.5in;">Spending yet another holiday season in this town
is not what I had envisioned for myself. I actually had envisioned someplace
warmer, someplace fresh, some young body as a gift to myself; but here am I
just the same. The cold air had pushed against me as I walked here as though
even the bitter wind had protested my plans to seek warmth with the familiar. However,
it was the hushed whispering about someone who knows me all too well that I
could not ignore. It brought me to this shady establishment. The type of place
where the filth go to forget themselves and the vagabonds disappear quietly. That
is why I will find her here, in this hole of a place. A place where the meals
come easy. Especially for someone as beautiful as Yen.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; text-indent: 0.5in;"> She twists and rolls her body around a pole
in ways that has these fools pressing the stage and drooling like dogs. But
they have no idea what she is capable of; the horror she would do to them. The
things she will do to me. </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; text-indent: 0.5in;">The sweet
elation of her fangs feel ripping through my flesh. She has always been my
favorite vice. I flash her money folded in my fingers prompting her eyes to
catch mine. It is enough for her to strut toward me with a most devilish smile.
Winking, she takes the money from my hand; but it is not the cash she wants; it
is the address I have tucked inside. We do not need words. This has, after all,
become quite a habit for us. We both know our roles to play in this. Mine is to
find some poor sap to be our dinner. After all, fresh blood really does make it
all that much more fun. And when she can, Yen will seek me out and then we will
begin to relish in a very Merry Christmas for us both.</span></span></div>Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-55006357712437147572020-09-09T12:47:00.004-04:002022-06-22T15:22:13.219-04:00September 15, 1980 – London<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: medium;"> The red of her dress catches my eye. It is familiar. I saw her earlier tonight on a payphone in the hotel lobby. She was speaking to her husband about the children’s bedtime and sending her love to him. Then she promptly went upstairs and put on the dress the fits just a tad too tight. Her heels have not been out of the closet in some time. They still have a fine sheen of dust in the places she missed while wiping them off so quickly. As I watch her, I find myself wondering whether her blood will clash or blend with her dress should I happen to spill any on it. I suppose I will find out soon enough. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: medium;"> She pushes her hair behind her ear, exposing the empty hand that once displayed her set of diamond rings. And she sits a little too close to a man who smiles just a little too much. As he opens his wallet to pay for their drinks, I can see the indention of his own wedding band, tucked neatly away inside the leather folds. As they head toward the elevators, I smile. Neither of their spouses will believe the rumors. Neither will acknowledge the monsters that were lying to them. Only accepting that a monster was assuredly in the hotel room tonight and it was <i>that</i> monster that destroyed their happy families. I will have to leave town for a while. Just a few months. Not long enough for Marcella to find me as long as I am careful. But long enough for the dust to settle some. Perhaps Italy. Or maybe America. I hear California is nice this time of year.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span><div>
<br /></div>
Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-1544355526151034022020-08-13T12:15:00.003-04:002022-06-22T15:22:25.137-04:00July 1, 1932 - Paris<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"> She
came here to fall in love. They all do. I can see the rich hunger in her, that longing in her eyes, the way her body shifts when a man walks by, gauging her
possible suitor. Her stance gives her away, open and searching but still so timid.
I watch the hope dance across her face as she wonders if this man is the
one she is here to meet. If this is the man that will save her from a life of
solitude. But he does not even brush her shoulder as he walks past her on his
way to another lady. And the disappointment is heavy in her eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Already in her late thirties, she feels the
pressure of time and she has come here determined to find the one who can fill
the void that aches so deeply inside her. Now she stands on this tower, looking out at
the tiny people below, hoping to see the love she is so desperate for. I catch
her eyes as her gaze scans across the faces here. Her smile is soft and
inviting but she does not understand the need in my eyes is not for her love.
The void that aches inside me is not for a partner but only for one who can
satiate my hunger. As I walk toward her, my stare makes her blush and I realize
just how easy this will be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-77781887842846073102020-08-08T13:53:00.001-04:002022-06-22T15:22:36.656-04:00June 19, 2000 - Maldives<span style="font-family: "courier new";"> <span style="font-size: medium;"> I suppose it is fitting that the birthday of a monster must always end in bloodshed. Usually the blood is a gift to myself. Another year celebrated in crimson. But this year is different. This year, the blood that stains my hands does not belong to any human.</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new";"> I saw him three nights ago and he saw her. As a vampire, I take no real pleasure in killing another vampire. No more pleasure than removing any other obstacle from my path. But still, it had to be done. He saw her as just another werewolf, a wolf oblivious to him, and a wolf he wanted dead. But neither of them saw my need to protect her. And neither of them realized that I would slip away tonight and leave her warm embrace simply to hunt him.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new";"> As the warm waters bathe me in salt and the gentle waves cleanse his blood from my skin, I look toward the small bungalow hovering over the water. Inside, she sleeps peacefully, unaware of the monster whose blood now quietly becomes lost in the vastness of the ocean around me. Three nights ago, she asked what I wanted for my birthday, unaware of the murder I would be committing in lieu of a party. Three nights ago, I told her the truth: that she is my favorite gift. She is the only thing I could ever really want. Which is good, because she is truly the only thing I have left.</span></span><br />
<br />Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-72960638683324080882020-07-02T11:50:00.001-04:002022-06-22T15:22:52.182-04:00July 11, 1841 - Mt Everest<span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"> The snow swirls around me in a hurry with no place to go
except into the silent abyss. The silence of the night reaches even the coldest
parts of these mountains. For a human, a trip up this mountain is a completely different experience than a vampire. Humans spend weeks, sometimes months,
hiking this mountain in particular. A rite, the mountain, calls them, tempts
them, and, sometimes, it claims them. Vampires can do this hike in less than a
day, careful to avoid the sun. Peeking into the troposphere, humans find the
limited oxygen debilitating. Vampires do not need to breathe; therefore the
crushing of our lungs is minimal. </span><br />
</span><span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"> Still, it is no wonder why humans risk so much
to be here. Sitting on top of the world does have a soothing, humbling effect.
Even in the dark, the view is not lost on my eyes. The world and all its
turbulence is lost to an ocean of clouds wrapping around the neighboring peaks.
Serene and peaceful, the mountains tower above everything. Everything except
the monster inside of me. My hunger cannot be escaped. Not even at this height
can a vampire rise above its most primal need.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It pushes against me as strongly as the wind here. Some say that humans
should fear this mountain; but humans should not waste their fear on inanimate
things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Humans should respect the
mountain. They should <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fear</i> creatures like me. </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><o:p></o:p></span></span>Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-42649755310211069112020-03-02T09:47:00.003-05:002022-06-22T15:23:07.328-04:00May 13, 1938 - Cleveland<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "courier new";"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"> The snow blows in through the shattered glass. This abandoned
factory once held the futures of so many middle-class workers. Now, it only
houses dirty needles of the lost and the corpse next to me. Her death is almost
reflective of this factory in its own way. Once so full of life, now she is
only a shell that grows colder by the day. Her dreams, her future, is gone.
Floating away with the flurry of flakes that dust her skin. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">
</span><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"> When I saw her standing in the snow,waiting for a taxi, I did
not plan for her to die. A much different carnal need was driving me. However,
to be honest, I suppose I knew it would end this way regardless. She gave me
her body and I took so much more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
not a lack of control. I was not overcome by my inner demon. It is simply a
lack of value. Most human lives are not worth more than the meal they provide. Much
in the same manner a human values the life of a cow. Sure, a farmer might enjoy
their cows as pets. But when push comes to shove, a cow is a cow and dinner still
needs to be served.</span></span><span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;"><o:p></o:p></span></span>Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-59850233326280379902019-08-23T12:49:00.004-04:002022-06-22T15:23:25.980-04:00October 1, 1591 – Ajaccio<span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></span> The heavy scent of blood begins to have an effect on me that it rarely has before. Guilt. Not regret. Regret is a constant companion. No, guilt is different. It was not my choice to become a monster so the outcomes of being one is not often accompanied by guilt. However, I did choose this massacre and I chose it for selfish reasons. I <i>am</i> to blame for the death I feel in this home. </span><br />
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"> The pain of blaming oneself could consume a vampire easily if it is permitted to do so. But when a freshly warmed hand touches mine, I know it will not consume me tonight. With her eyes still black, Yen slides onto my lap. Her fingers push through my hair and traces crimson along my jawline. Heat surges through me, distracting me from feeling culpable. Surrounded by bodies in a tiny living room, she wants to take away my pain. And I will let her. I will let her take every part of me. </span><br />
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Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-27659016332769233112019-07-05T12:52:00.002-04:002022-06-22T15:24:30.875-04:00June 17, 1828 – Boracay<span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"> The sun set hours ago; yet the sand is still warm between my
toes. Some humans come to this island to relax, letting the waves take away the
troubles of their mundane lives. Others come for amusement, fun in the sun helps
them forget how mundane their lives truly are. My only wish in this moment is
to experience a genuinely mundane night. One without hunting, and one without
killing. Just one boringly, human-like evening in which I could pretend that my
life <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> mundane. A night filled with sitting on a beach,
imaging a life in which my monster does not call me. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"> The moon is low tonight but its light is weak, allowing the waters
to remain an inky black. It would be a good night for hunting. One could get
close to a human before they were ever even noticed. However in the consuming darkness
of the ocean, Kate stands alone as the water laps against her. Waving me toward
the dark abyss, her smile beckons me to join her. Raising to my feet, I start
toward the water. I came here to feel human; and right now, nothing seems more human than
swimming with your best friend. The only friend who really sees my darkness
but still refuses to look away. </span></span></span>Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-45191334658739226302019-06-11T12:28:00.004-04:002022-06-22T15:24:49.999-04:00April 3, 1938 - Cleveland<span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><span><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"> Headlines scream across the front page, another missing person.
Another body waiting to be found. Another family full of heart break. He thinks
he is invincible; that nobody can outsmart him. But hunting is not about outsmarting
anyone. It is about being cunning, ruthless, and patient. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Waiting to find your perfect opportunity,
exploit it, and continue to go unnoticed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But he has been noticed. Far too much. This
human is bringing too much unwanted attention to my hunting grounds. Too many
police paroling the dark alleys and shady streets in hopes of preventing more
bodies. His monster is interfering with mine. So while he watched her, my eyes
stalked him. </span></span><br />
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span><span> As he believes himself to be untouchable, it will be my teeth that pierce his skin. And while he begins to view himself as some type of god, it will be
his undeniably moral blood that quenches my thirst. Unlike his victims, the
police will not his body. My killings are far less untidy, and far less ostentatious
than his. Another unidentified serial killer off of the streets. Just a predator consumed by another predator. T<span><span>he police have not been able to find him; but he cannot hide from me.</span> <span>Nobody saved her and nobody will stop me.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span><span> </span></span></span><br />
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<br />Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-35440489491960893632019-05-16T12:05:00.003-04:002022-06-22T15:23:41.759-04:00June 18, 1923 - Chicago<span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"> Sitting in the back, I watch the humans drinking merrily.
Their voices carry through the room as though it may not make it through the hazy cigar smoke lurking in the air if their voices weren’t projected so
loudly.
Laughing, they have no suspicion of what watches them. The monster inside me
smiles with each passing moment knowing that my birthday gift to myself grows
closer. Tomorrow, I will indulge myself, though there is no real purpose
to it. Humans rejoice their passing years as they transcend through the
decades, growing, learning, but mostly aging. </span><br />
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"> Yet is it really necessary to
celebrate aging when you don’t? Regardless, my birthday tomorrow gives me an excuse to act on my sincerest
impulses. The blond waitress that bring me another drink will suffice my basic
carnal needs. She is young and vibrant with blood rich with sweetness. Tomorrow,
that will end. She is my gift to myself. Her trepidation will delight my inner
monster, her blood will quench my ravenous thirst, and her pain will spill over
my every craving. This will be slow and extensive. I will let her pain and my pleasure linger. Her blood will run warm. There will be screaming. So much
screaming. And it will satisfy me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-62983472784568277892019-04-11T21:09:00.005-04:002022-06-22T15:25:05.128-04:00August 25, 1982 - Miami<span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"> While the humans complain about the thick air crushing their
lungs, I stare blankly at the ceiling in her apartment. The floor fan blowing
humid air in a desperate attempt to cool the night. Saturated with sweat, the
bed sheets cling to me uncomfortably but I do not move. My mind is calm. My
thirst is satisfied. I never intended to kill her but I make the most in this
temporary peace. My body does not urge me to hunt, my mind does not plague me
with memories, and my guilt has not yet set in. This is the serenity that
people search for. No longing. No desires. No worries. Just me, a stuffy room,
and a still-warm body. Her body will begin to show signs of death. The stench,
the stiffening, and the pallor. But for now, for this one moment, her arm is
draped across my stomach as through she is merely sleeping and there is a
tapping on the floor where her blood drips from her fingers that is lulling me into
a subtle tranquility. For this one
moment, my life is perfect.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-55044372645471489192014-11-27T14:53:00.004-05:002022-06-22T15:25:24.022-04:00April 21, 1753 – St. Petersburg<span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"> With my eyes closed, I lie on the snow covered ground. The cold soaks my pants and wrapping my body in an icy embrace. Lying there, I image that in the silent, bitter air she would have been able to feel my looming presence. Here in a secluded forest, her screams were isolated to my ears only. Still, she walked here with her hand in mine knowing the darkness that was to consume her. </span><br />
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"> Willingly, she replaced her life with temporary pain and fear. Detached from the world, she chose her escape through my unbiased and unforgiving fangs. In the moonlight, her pale skin dulled against the glistening snow as her crimson painted the fresh powder in perfection. The scent of blood warms my soul and for the first time in a long time, I feel alive. </span></span>Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906716728466575233.post-83712544449668529122014-08-11T12:06:00.001-04:002022-06-22T15:25:36.041-04:00January 8, 1592 - Arbois<span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"> The smell of bread fills the small kitchen. With flour dusting her hair, she dances across the floor with steps as light as the traces of perfume she leaves hanging in the air. Beautiful and vibrant, she brightens my otherwise dark existence. Considering herself as food connoisseur, she has shown me her world through flavors and textures. </span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"> But my brief flirtation with a normal life shatters as quickly as the glass that falls from her hand when she sees my dark eyes. I tried to hide them from her but the monster inside me ruined yet another opportunity to forget what I really am. Her world has a plethora of choices but the only palatable thing offered in my world is her. As she stares back at me, I realize that now she knows that too.</span></span>Kathryn Horsleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11306270600468696734noreply@blogger.com0