It’s a lovely restaurant.

   Lovely.

   There is no artificial lighting. Just hundreds of candles that flicker from recessed niches in the walls and on every table.

   And you’ve done everything right so far. From seating me in my chair, with the slight brush of your knuckles across my bare shoulders as you removed my light jacket, to taking my purse from my bloodless fingers to place it next to my feet, you have excelled. As you knelt beside me and ran your fingertips up my bare leg you lift your perfect lips into a melting smile that promises everything.

   I want everything

   And there you are, sitting across from me. So perfect, my dream, my nightmare, my man of the hour, my choice. The candle light is kind to you and as I stare over the glass rim of a red wine I’m enthralled by your voice. I don’t know what you're saying but you just have to keep talking and I’ll just keep redrawing you in the candlelight.

   You have utterly, beguilingly captured me.

   The candle on the table has lit a fire in your eyes. I imagine the fires of Hell burn there and shiver at the thought of all that wickedness. The way you ran your fingers through your hair has tricked me into thinking that two small (very ****) horns protrude from your head. It’s an illusion, but one that I’m happy to run with.

   As you pick up my hand and feather kisses along my fingertips I feel the brush of the stubble on your face which I’m sure wasn’t there when we walked hand in hand to our table but the ****** hair is unmistakable. Is it possible I’m here with a Lycanthrope? Will our evening end with me running bare foot through the woods while a howl scrapes delicious shivers down my spine? Will I fall to my knees, a victim of the beast as it stalks me, scenting the wind, marking it’s prey, spying me and leaping to devour me? One glance at the full moon suggests I might be in for a wild night.

   In the candlelight you morph into all of my fantasies. But now, I’m just hungry.

   The illusion is just too hard to hold. I haven’t eaten since my last foray into the mortal world and I’m too tired to hold onto the hope that I can make it past reality.

   The restaurant drops away. The candles burn down to one lowly guttering torch and you're just a little boy (next to my 712 years) standing in a cave, where I have lured you and you're more than aware that you're not desert, you’re the main meal and the adrenaline coursing through your beautiful veins have my fangs dropping and my eyes smoldering but don’t worry, I can make it pleasurable, if I want to, it depends whether my fantasies have been strong enough, but I will respect you…

   Of course!

He held the gun pressed on her forehead

say what ya want to say before you're dead

but he left her with really no choice
she couldn't speak gagged was her voice

this is one death I'll never mourn
her response was a muffled groan

I have endured you long enough
time for riddance, killing you won't be tough

say last words, your last prayer
then let my bullet speak, end of nightmare
never thought taking life would be such fun
my freedom from you would flow from the gun

then he held before her a mirror

see yer eyes see there the horror
the pathetic pleading the cowering appeal

sorry woman it's my time for the ****

the trigger clicked the man closed his eyes

no killer he was a good man in disguise

game up, he said, we made a perfect score

I'm happy it's over, will play this game no more

Too often
I forget,
That when
I trust
Someone,
They don’t
Have to
Do the same
In return.

Trust isn't
A two way
Street.
It’s one way.
And sometimes,
If you’re lucky,
Someone will
Turn down your
One way street
Regardless of the
Precept.

Too often
I forget,
That trust
Isn't something
That will always be
Returned.

Because trust isn't
An obligation
For someone else

It’s an expectation
You already have for them.

It starts as drizzle pita pata gently
the sky gets darker and darker
pita pata become droplets that plop
they hit the red soil pounding hard
dry soil jumping in gratitude and joy

Now the pounding becomes a torrent
the soil does jump no more
the ground all around
starts to change colour
mimicking it's sister sky

Puddles appear everywhere
creating droplets upon water
that leap and twirl
like ballerinas dancing
on their own private pools

The smell of damp soil is so sweet
the clouds depart their work complete
the puddles will shrink as water seeps
into the earth sustaining life new and old
the rain, in my eyes is a wonder to behold



By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris