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Lullaby of the Raven
A night, benighted with a dark and ominous obsidian hue. It lay across the sky as a shield for the metropolis that rested quiescent in some areas and as lively as a child in other sectors. Strumpets traipsed around the town, as though waiting for an opulent vagrant or needy man to fill their nights with apathetic sex and a bit of cash. Women nestled within their homes, either childless or with a few adolescents felt themselves indefatigable. Some knew that their men would leave for the night, to play with these promiscuous vixens, and some were lucky enough to have a man who held his faith and morals high.
But this was casually and inveterately expected within this city, this realm that gave birth to sin at night. It may not have been considered to be as prominent as Chicago or the ever enduring New York, but Ardnek had its own infamous touch that would quickly poison the lungs of any visitors or current dwellers. Malchrist was akin to this town, the feel he gained of such adulteration made him feel much at home. Those who were familiar with him would call him a creature of the night, but he just liked to think of himself as being sadistic and masochistic. He had his occasional fun with the tramps of the city; he had money to spare and they were always so coquettishly willing.
He was of considerable youth and quite comely in appearance; so many of his pleased ladies would say. A sheet of auburn hair flowed past his shoulders, his bangs becoming a usual nuisance as they would shadow his piercing black eyes. His nose stood firm and was slightly protruded, casting a shadow over his thin and peach lips. He was of a medium height, at least for someone of his young age; being only twenty-one but fairly rich. His habitual ventures throughout the city at night would take him to constant night clubs such as the Kitty Cat and a poetry club known as Quoth the Raven.
No one truly knew of his love for poetry, most just thought of him as a sleazy man that had no respect for women or society as a whole. In all respects, that was true, but there was more to this nocturnal enigma than most really cared to find relevant. Personally, he loved literature, any type, but mainly poetry fabricated by Shakespeare and Edgar Allen Poe. His own attire was correlative to the poem called "The Raven", for he was accustomed to wearing all black. The obstinate clacks of his cane against the pavement as he treaded was the usual calling given to those he would pass. Some chose to avoid him, others simply to gawk; only those audacious women of the local night clubs would actually approach him.
In most cases, he would accept their offers and bed them with forgotten or sadistic pleasure. But queerly, at times he seemed not in the mood for erotic play, and he would carry his shadowed visage over to his beloved poetry corner. Those within the darkly shaded edifice chose not to acknowledge his presence, many remained oblivious to most spectators, unless they chose to present their views on society and irrelevant matters through poetry. It never bothered him that none chose to spark a conversation with him, he never sought to do so with any of them. But on this very night in general, a dark and ominous desire burned and churned within the pit of his stomach, and he simply had to put these feelings within words.
So, as a young and picturesquely dressed woman had fled from the stage after reciting her epitaph, he soon rose from what seat he found, and staged himself next to spread what words he had. Though standing tangibly in front of all others, they could not really see him, but observe and listen to the words of a corrupt and nonsensical man.
"Wan lips of baby roses
Blood of the iron angel
Hands painted in obsidian leather
The raven has sprouted new feathers
Shivering in the desolate night
Children suffer from continuous plight
The virgin lost in adulterated lust
The raven flies high above the city
Maudlin cries rupture the skies
The ballet slipper abandons a lace
A pup is found last in the race
The raven wanders, as a nightly vagrant"
No blithe or elated snaps were resounding throughout the room, only a deafening silence remained as Malchrist stepped away from the stage. A smirk laid across his face as his dark eyes had left what interest was there after his recitation. He soon found himself outside, with an awaiting woman who looked hungry with need. This was no surprise to him, and his grin soon broadened as he approached her. "Oh... what a lost little lamb in this harsh night... this raven shall care for you."
 ~Kee Kee Matsumi~ · Sat Jun 04, 2005 @ 05:19am · 5 Comments |
