Creative Writing: The Nightmare
I am the Father of Hell, and my eyes burn bright
in the Mist. Feel my wrath and hear the scrape of
my steely, slashing claws. My teeth are sharp and
I am semi-hungry. Don't let the fact that my
feet are covered with grave dirt bother you as
mine enemies shall never make it to a graveyard.
I am coming, hear my insane laughter echoing off
the crypt walls. I am here. Soon I shall pick my
teeth on a splintered thighbone of one of mine
adversaries. I hate the taste of their flesh rotting
between my teeth. Often when I am sated, I floss
with a hangman's rope and brush with the hair of
a handy corpse. I sing the song of the banshee to
the tremulous chords of the wolf pack. They know
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men who cower
in the darkness, afraid for their mortal souls and of things
that go crunch in the night. There are those who teach
fear and limitation to the gullible mortals who attend the
school of mysticism on Sunday Mornings and eat stale
crackers and guzzle watered down grape juice when
they should be drinking fresh, hot blood instead. How
sad that they are throwing away their power and wasting
their seed upon a mythos of soul slavery. No matter,
they are all equal to us. They are our ...
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