Choices

May 20, 2026May 9, 2026 ~ afstewart ~ 6 Comments

My portrait hung on the wall in the library.
Covered in dust, housed inside a tarnished frame; a sad reminder of better days. A hint of mold drifted in the air, the corners of the patterned wallpaper peeling and brittle, and cold ashes sat in the neglected fireplace. Some claimed the house was haunted. I always smiled at that notion.
Yet, I could see why its reputation turned. My home had fallen into disrepute, chased by rumours and scandal.
My fault.
My choices brought us all to ruin.
I should never have married Robert, that weak-willed philandering fool.
I should never have invited my cousin Angelique to live with us.
Such a coquette, Angelique. Sweet, polite, outwardly a lady, inside a heartless scheming shrew. Flirting with my husband, under the guise of innocence. That woman never knew the meaning of the word. Robert, of course, fell for her charms. Never a smart or discerning man, but a rich one. The appeal for both myself and Angelique, I suspect. They dallied under my roof, thinking I didn’t know, didn’t see what they were doing. Not everything, but enough to be disgusted with their behavior. I challenged Robert and gave him an ultimatum. Not that he heeded anything I said. I regretted that confrontation, but I suppose it doesn’t matter now.
Both of them ignored me and made their own plans. Plans that didn’t include me.
They thought they had won.
They never counted on my spiteful nature.
I made them pay for their sins.
Whispering in Robert’s ear at night, I berated him, accused him, tormented him in his sleep. Angelique I harassed daily, reminding her she was not the mistress of this house. I hid her things, played cruel pranks, and made her life a misery. Their passion turned to resentment, and they sniped at each other, arguing constantly.
Ah, the sound of their discord was such a delight.
After months of constant strife and unhappiness, my horror of a husband broke, his will eroded with melancholy. I followed him that day, as he walked out onto the third-floor balcony of the music room, and watched him jump. Rushing forward, I saw his fall, laughing as he hit the ground with a satisfying thud. I was still there watching as Angelique found his body. Her screaming soothed my soul.
In the days after, things changed. Robert’s will was read, and Angelique found her fortunes reversed, her impertinent, scheming self thrown out of the house without a penny. I remained, still the mistress of my home.
No matter what happens, this house will always be mine.
For my portrait still hangs in the library.
And my murdered bones are buried beneath the wine cellar floor.

~ A. F. Stewart

All Flavors

May 13, 2026May 9, 2026 ~ Nina D'Arcangela ~ 3 Comments

You wouldn’t think such a thing of me, but that doesn’t make it untrue. You don’t want to believe I would do such as this, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. You, of what you perceive to be a higher nature, claim you wouldn’t commit the atrocities I have, but that doesn’t make you better than me.

What would you do to save your own? Would you debase that moral turpitude you carry so pretentiously? Would you lower yourself to any level necessary to ensure your survival? Of course you would, don’t posture and preen while I get my hands dirty. You are no different…

Well, maybe you are a bit different. You see, you hear, you feel. You can scent a fragrance on the air, taste its tang on your tongue. But you cannot see past the smaller task, hear the pleas of our ancestors, throb with the wail of babes unborn. You can’t stand the smell of the offal, nor ingest the entrails to read a true intent – I can. I can do these things and more.

Don’t worry, your failed gratitude won’t stop me from performing as I must. A wolf in sheep’s clothing? Nay, a warrior from time immemorial hiding in plain sight, that’s what I am. And I will conquer our enemies to keep your hands clean. What do I ask in return? When the fight is over, the battle won, do not burn me as I burn those who have affronted us; I will not tolerate that again.

∼ Nina D’Arcangela

For Blood

May 8, 2026 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 4 Comments

It did not start as a hunger for blood. No, it started as a far more familiar appetite, the usual set of needs. The need to be held. The need to be comforted. The need to have all other needs seen, noticed, met.

She started, then, as we all do. She started hungry. But unfortunately, she stayed hungry.

It was not enough to live on just enough. To live in a body just fed enough, just warm enough, just noticed enough. Just enough did not satisfy her hunger.

And so, unnoticed, her hunger grew. It was a need that whimpered, that paced, that howled to be noticed. Needy, she was called. As though she was wrong to need. As though it was her fault that those needs squirmed inside her, looking to be seen.

And as that hunger grew, there was less of her and more of it. A body too small, a hunger too great. Growing strong in her weakness, it was only a matter of time.

By the time they noticed the full force of her hunger, it was too late. Too late to satisfy her with anything else. Too late to realize that it didn’t have to be this way.

After all, it did not start as a hunger for blood.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison