Stars are now in the sky,
And you are looking quite shy,
Staring at my face from behind those bangs,
I’m replying with a smile, showing my fangs.

You’re suddenly moving, your heart fluttering like a colibri
I get up and you’re running, one move and you’re no longer free.
My arms are all around you, I’m holding you from behind.
You’re panting like a maniac grabbing for any weapon you can find.

I loosen my grip, just so you can spin around.
And try to attack me with whatever you found.
A small knife stabs my chest were my heart should have been.
And I smile at you and whisper in your ear that I am not really mean.

I look at you once again, the stars in your eyes.
My bloodlust is my curse and your demise.
It was not something I chose; I can tell you that,
But as I pull you towards me, I feel like a rat.
A vermin, taking from you what is not mine,
But as I drink your blood, all that once mattered is now fine.
My lust and desire fills you,
And you are enjoying it, just like I do.

The ground is filling up with your blood in a pool,
The stars shine down, their light so cool.
And in the red that covers the ground,
The stars are reflected beautifully without sound.






_____________________

Här Dropkick:




Magic war. The most awful kind there is. The magicers are these huge powerful beings, who once started out just like any other man. They are so much different now that you could never believe that. The rest of us, we try to stay clear of the battlegrounds. Or, only if we do, do we keep on living, sometimes in the shape of a teapot, but it’s still a form of existence. One of our most famous poets once described a world ruled by magic warfare as something that looked like a piano sounds shortly after being dropped down a well. It tasted yellow, and felt paisley. It smelled like total eclipse of the moon. Of course, nearer to the actual battlegrounds things got really weird. I never quite could remember that poet’s name. But his words were vastly regarded as a true way of describing the world, except that if you got really far away from the battlegrounds, things would be less weird. And you might just wake up as the same shape you were when you went to bed.

I live closer to the battlegrounds than most. Not because I’m fascinated by war, not at all, I hate it. But I’m shunned upon by my fellow civilian. Once I worked with smuggling things out of the warzones, I was able to do that because of a protective spell that I’ve had since I was a baby. My grandmother was a witch. Some appreciated my dodgy work, but I must admit I got greedy, and was driven away and into the outer rims of the warzones. A place I once prized myself for being able to walk unharmed. But back then I could be careful and only stay in here for shorter periods, now I was stuck here and after four years it was starting to show.

Oh, silly me, I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Zowban Monday but back when I was in business I used to be called Mr. Monday or Walkeasy Monday by those with loose tongues. Sometimes I went by The Librarian. My last name was truly earned. To the more affluent man (or woman for that matter) I could smuggle magical books, on request. And I always read every book before I sold it. During the years they became quite many, but don’t think I know any magic, ‘cause I don’t. Not even the easy spells were something I could do. Or remember for that sake. Last time I heard I was being referred to as Old Mad Monday, not very nice, since I’m barely 34 years old. But what does a name mean? Most days I’m afraid of going to bed ‘cause I don’t know what I’ll wake up as. For all the times I’ve changed during the last four years, I suppose my real name has been lost, dropped somewhere with my young face and well trimmed moustache. I don’t call myself anything anymore, except for Me, Myself or I. But that’s just the seamy side of being alone all the time I suppose.

I used to have a bird to talk to. Or it was probably a dog before it became birdlike, since it seemed afraid of heights and terribly fond of company. I called him Hebaw. But as with most things, me including, you change shape and form at least once a week here in the outer rims. Every day you wake up a little different. Most days you’re just taller or shorter than yesterday, or your hair has darkened a few shades. Perhaps your eyes are a bit more blue than green. But then there are the days when the battlefields move, when the big spells recoil over you because the war has spread, and as the spells mix in their own wake they become something dangerous and uncontrolled and random. If you get hit by that, you’re in for a bad surprise. For the last two months Hebaw had been a fairly tacky bright red rug with golden fringes and a complex pattern in blue and yellow, and out of some twisted sense of courtesy had I been carrying him along rolled up on my shoulder.

My grandmother’s spell did not keep me unaffected by the radiation the spells leave behind after being cast, however it made it so that I could never go from being a living thing to being a dead thing, which is why most people find the warzones so dangerous. Nobody likes to wake up dead. But I have been affected, truly. As I look down on myself I notice my left arm which is most conspicuous, a bright lilac colored thing that seemed to belong to a mix between a pink rhino and a set of kitchen knives lay by my side. I could move it, and it came in handy when I wanted to make a hole somewhere, but I’ve only had it six months and it still freaked me out at times. Also it was always cold for some reason. My right foot had been in the habit of tingling before huge spells came my way for about two years, I didn’t so much mind that, but it also glowed in a light blue color in the dark, and it took me a while to learn to sleep with that. I’ve had a tail for about a year, but six months ago a really huge one came at me and my tail fell off. At that time I was mostly just glad it was only my tail that fell off. Other than that I looked like people do most, except for my ears that had placed themselves a bit higher up than usual and looked like a progeny of moth antennas and cat ears and possibly a wineglass. Oh, and they were blue. I have long forgotten my natural born hair and eye colors. Under my long brimmed hat and trench coat I looked almost normal. My current hair color was dark brown-blue-ish and my eyes were changing too often for me to keep track.

My typical day is all about getting my basic needs satisfied. I find food, or hunt for it if I have to. I clean myself, eat, see to it that I have clothes fitting the weather, eat again and sleep. If I have time for other things I usually try to find some book to read. And of course shelter if there are any spells heading my way. You can’t really protect yourself from spells, it’s not like you can jump behind a wall and be safe. But there are some precautions that are well… existing. Spells were created to hit people, or living beings. The more times the spell reacts, the less power is in it. So if you stand with a group of people in between of you and the spell, there is a good chance it won’t be that bad when it hits you, but spells usually changes everything in its path, so a good idea is to put as much in between you and the spell as possible. That being said the worst place to be with a spell heading your way is open space. Then again, most spells are narrow when coming at you and you can avoid them by throwing yourself out if the way. The really big ones however hits you like a rainy storm.

Speaking of rain, it started falling water from the sky as Zowban wrote the last line in his blank book. He had never thought of being an author, but somehow, with all the spare time he had, he’d just thought ‘why not’ and gotten started. It was going to be a mix between a diary and a biography, he’d decided. He put the book and pen back in his trench coat and his hat back on. Then he huddled closer to the wall behind him. He was up on the second story in a house, but something, probably a spell, had made three walls and half the roof, disappear; making it look like a gingerbread house in the making. The house was connected with the others on the street, which suited Zowban nicely, since he had long ago abandoned the streets where most the spells came at you. And if it wasn’t spells, it was monsters created by them. He preferred the rooftops, and had gotten quite good at navigating them and throwing himself from the one to the other. He pulled up Hebaw the rug closely and leaned at it to see if he could sleep a bit.