What are Ozlandish Writings?

From July 2010 to December 2014 we ran OZLAND PICTURE STORIES as described below. Sadly though the number of writers reduced over the years and we decided to call it a day. We leave these as a record of the good times we had.

Are "You" ready to challenge your writing skills? Then participate in our OZLAND Picture Stories writing series at The Ozland Art Gallery.

Each month a new picture will be picked, from our OZLAND Artist of the Month collection, with different themes. Your goal is to write a 500-1000 word... poem... essay... or story about the picture picked. This is a chance for you to challenge your writing skills each month. Story can be written in ANY genre... sci fi... romance... ghost... fantasy... fiction... non-fiction... biography... mystery... historical... whatever your writing genre... feel free to experiment. Send your writing inworld to Sven Pertelson as a notecard to have it included on the web site. We meet at the The Ozland Art Gallery each Wednesday at Noon and 6pm SLT to read the latest submissions on voice. More Information

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

"Denied" by Mika Gigamon

"Denied" by Mika Gigamon

The candle's flame flickered in the still evening air, dancing on the most imperceptible of air currents and bringing forth life to the normally still shadows on the stark stone walls. An undercurrent of gloom and despair clung to the floor like a sick fog -- invisible, cloying, foul, and putrid. Evil had set root within this room and taken hold of all that entered.

In the farthest corner from the door, on a pallet of thin dry straw, Lilith sat in her finery. Her couture was starkly out of place and clashed heavily with rest of the room's tawdry furnishings. She did not belong to this place and it took but the most casual of glances to make such an observation. Her countenance and carriage gave one the impression of an expensive porcelain doll stashed carefully out of sight from prying eyes.

Lolita looked down at her body, now partly exposed as she removed her bodice and skirts to expose her foundation garments. Her black and red silk merry widow gleamed in the thin reedy light of the candle. Her alabaster skin was as unmarked and pure as fresh fallen snow and her trim lithe body was marred only by a single fault. Her stomach bulged slightly from the life growing within it -- a life that had to be ended before the evil within her was born forth.

Her mind raced as she remembered the grotesquery of *him* embedding his seed within her. His dark soul and evil essence filling her mind and body simultaneously in an act so divinely performed that it could only be termed "perfect evil." He had raped her body and soul in a single act and left enough of himself behind to ensure his continued existence in the life that seethed within her. She had not known that a child of Nosferatu could perform such an act and had naively believed that her pureness of heart protected her. Now, rudely educated, she knew how childishly she had behaved and how foolishly she had acted. Alas, in the tragedy that was to be her life's story, there was but a single act left to play.

She turned the ivory-handled surgeon's knife in her hands, watching its silvered blade glimmer in the dim unsteady light. She had traded all that she had owned to secure this specific blade. It was rumoured to be the knife carried by Jack-the-Ripper and used to murder and dissect his 11 victims. On the streets of Whitechapel its razor keen edge had slit their throats before mutilating their genitals and removing their organs. The blade had touched more than one womb and laid it bare of life and breath -- it would know how to find one more. Of this fact she was sure. Though now she was penniless, it would not matter in but a few more moments. She would be liberated and free to pursue an alternative destiny in an existence where one's only wealth was measured by one's soul. By ending this life her soul would be cleansed of her travesty and the weight of its evil chains removed.

One fast thrust and her misery would be over. One quick jab and the unborn would be born into death and then not undead. Its bloodlusts never to quicken and its sucking mouth never to taste a human's warm iron-tinged nectar. That she would go with it to the afterlife was fitting. Though evil through and through because of its father, the child and its soul would be purified by the touch of the blade. Once unburdened and cleansed, the infant would need a guide in the next life and its mother was the right person for the task.

She looked up as a shadow filled the door. It was him. Somehow he had found her and was here for his child. She still had time. She looked up at him, beautiful, seductive, sensuous, and defiant. Her eyes shone with the brightness of two suns. Her aura expanded as though it had gone nova, growing larger and stronger than any he had ever seen in all the centuries he had strode the night. He reeled and it was too late. Her ruby lips parted one last time, though not for a kiss, as she sighed with her last breath, "You are denied." The blade drove deep and hard into her womb and the blood flowed freely. Though he yearned always for its bitter flavour, the red stream flowing from his concubine and child did not arouse his appetites.

He turned and walked from the room. He would find another and begin again. He had all eternity and sooner or later one of his progeny would rise to join him in the ranks of the Vampyre.

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