Unlit

There are stretches, indeterminate splashes of oil
or ink, where any glim of a glow to reach it would
shimmy if someone entered, then sputter and be
swallowed: a dying organism. Gone dim, black
as an abyss, But not from an absence of light…
More the darkening of illumination against the vast
Cosmic Night. As if a spiritual flame were snuffed;
blown out. By what? This remained to be seen —
encountered within the depths of a sly unlit expanse.

If someone had the nerve.

That pocket between places where anything could
occur in the bleakest of moments; the farthest-flung
hintermost minutes. Treacherous. Precarious —
jangling chords of alarm, spiking the measure of
our blood. An average person may endeavor to pass
in haste… and might just slip through the gauntlet
whole, unharmed. Tweed Nunk sought a path around,
to circumvent the sinister space in wary inept fashion:
tripping on his own fright. Barging in a bullrush…

To be snagged by a shoelace.

Undone. However tacky and odd in the drabbest sense.
Bland and uninteresting, a rut-dweller, uncommonly
dull. The nit defined every law of Averages in spite of
an unusual name, his blatantly forgettable demeanor.
Being so ordinary and nondescript he stood out. Shy.
An irregularity. The Dark Place couldn't spare such
a prize. To the fellow's dismay, the ground conspired
with eldritch shadows to do him in as flailing wormish
tentacles of dusk and gloomfall tunneled to the surface.

He danced, unable to retreat.

Unwilling to barrel forth. Being a moper who tended to
blend in, avoid traits and attributes that could make him
memorable, remarkable, this wasn't the time for theatrics.
Or heroics. It wasn't sufficient to trigger a suppressed
Alter-Ego called Twill — after an identical brother who
had been everything he lacked then perished. Solitary,
uncomfortable in public, Tweed preferred to never be
chosen, accepted. He abhorred displays of emotion,
yet the dunnish span provoked beads of fear to appear.

On a creased brow, his upper lip.

An oval face to inflate Tomato-Red. Engulfed by
an infinitely awful interior, no longer feeling outside.
His world had folded in somehow, the dismal cube
its core of entombment, a wall-less cell of dense
umber in the midst of day where it didn't belong,
it had no business to be, and there it freakishly was!
The fellow halted, enveloped by a dreariness so
profound as to be palpable, right in front of him.
Blocking escape; all-encompassingly real!

Perhaps just a feeling.

A sense of confinement. Did it even exist? There
was a way to be certain. He refused to find out.
Not him. Rigid, a statue of qualms. Posed in
stubborn panic, Tweed was too obstinate to move
or blink or breathe. Afraid of the Unknown. Scared
his entire life. Let the netherworms claim him, for
he was done! Moray, on the other hand, was just
getting started. Centuries old, he had taken a few
careless missteps and discovered himself trapped.

Enraged against the stupidity!

The grotesque embarrassment. A Vampire, allowing
himself to be stuck. Who would believe it? Caged
by a tenebrous open vault; surrounded by scorching
eternities of light. Though he didn't share its field
alone. A morsel cringed as if transfixed, blind in the
glare of a spotlight, leery of the intense gleam —
so brilliant it must burn at sight or touch. Or so it
seemed for him. Sniffing, Moray drank the man's
raw delicious terror, trepidation! Filling senses…

With the purest elation!

Least he would be fed. And not like captive Tigers
at a Circus or Zoo. Tossed their pound of flesh.
A Vampire had pride, deserving the glory of the hunt!
However limited, exceptionally close the range —
almost coffinesque. A burial chamber. And what did
he know of such things? To him not a permanent spot.
No place of rest to languish forever. To him a mere
bed from which he expected to rise each mourn…
Thus he approached the sack of meat at his disposal.

It was no special offering.

Simply a snack. A tidbit that held no further purpose
than to be sacrificed. Born to be eaten without remorse,
compassion. With a blank expression. A fleeting jolt
of euphoric pleasure, sustenance, The body's wolflike
reflexive hunger and surfeit. Why should he care about
the life that once pulsed in those veins? Nonsense…
He took what he needed. He did not waste. Nourished
off the heartbeats of innocents. What nobler fate could
they desire than to replenish a Lord so far superior?

Instead of declaring him a Parasite…

Humans should cower, kneel to him like a god! This
was his due. They ought to thank him for the great
privilege. Moray grimaced. Come to me, lamb…
He did not wait, moving swifter than a Mortal could
fathom. Clutching Tweed Nunk by the shoulders
from behind — poised to sink fangs into Jugular.
A final sniff. Mediocre vintage. Inferior richness
and bouquet. What choice did he have? Until he
might escape this dungeon of bright boundaries.

The leech was a prisoner.

Making him ever-so-slightly more humble, less
arrogant. Caught a little off-guard. He scowled.
A Monster, long in the tooth, snarling over this
treatment, the indignity. While an unlit void crept
up spindly appendages, cold and dank as a cellar.
What was happening to him? Absorbing the black
dominion, or being absorbed? "You can't have
your cake and eat it, as the wretched saying goes!"
he scorned. "You cannot both keep and devour me."

Haughtily the creature laughed.

"I refuse to be your fodder! You bow to me!
You are literally nothing! " he railed. The sharp
chilling darkness withdrew. "You serve me, stain!
I am the one who hungers!" bellowed Moray.
The man in his grasp — the son of a Seamstress
who died from a plague along with his Twin —
decided now would be a good time to react…
"Who are you talking to? I don't see any cake.
I don't see anything, period." A passive voice.

Uttering a spate of senseless bleats.

Moray howled a wrathful "Shut up! " The meal
was ruining his appetite. "Oh, so you're the one
who gets to talk? What are you, some sort of
Vampire?" demanded Tweed as Twill. "If you
drain me, who will you eat then? I'm probably
the only guy dumb enough to stumble in here.
Besides you! Maybe you're not so smart…"
Claws punctured skin. Teeth bared in fury —
the ghoul hissing, snapping at his prey.

A livid countenance frothed…

Luminous; the visage a ghastly shade of pale.
Moray shook his victim, rattling tooth and bone.
Who was speaking? What is this nightmare?
How did I wind up here? Tweed Nunk had
deplored. The answer would arrive not in
a Vampire's embrace, but in the silence that
echoed as Time gradually halted and an air
of slow-motion malice hung suspended…
augmenting breath… amplifying heartrate.

"I am the one who lives."

A weak body trembled, then throbbed with
courage: the type that accompanied true
desperation. Ardently defying Death, a Fool
played his card. As the Blood-Beast broadly
parted viper jaws, it took a special kind of
idiot to fight back. Insanely grinning, Twill
resisted the presence of a Being ages more
powerful, and the press of a deep emptiness.
Bravado in the face of doom reverberated…

Repelling a crass Bloodsucker.

And the vain hollow substance that plotted
to have them all. A stark oppressive margin
yielded. The light seeped inward, trickling,
flooding the domain. A faint sheen at first,
subduing, growing, gathering a bolder shine
to burst outward in effusive forceful rays of
everything. Connecting until it merged with
Daylight beyond for just a blinking instant,
the morning sky blanched of any hue.

A figure knelt amidst a beaming blissful
abundance. Another had dissolved.

Turned to flame, then spectral dust.

Lori R. Lopez is a peculiar author, poet, illustrator, and wearer of hats. Verse and stories have appeared in a variety of magazines and anthologies including The Sirens Call, Spectral Realms, Weirdbook, The Horror Zine, Space & Time, HWA Poetry Showcases, JOURN-E, Impspired, Aphelion, Altered Reality, Dead Harvest, and California Screamin' (Foreword Poem). Books include The Dark Mister Snark, Leery Lane, An Ill Wind Blows, The Witchhunt, The Fairy Fly, and Darkverse: The Shadow Hours (nominated for an Elgin Award). Some of Lori's poems have been nominated for Rhysling Awards. You can learn more about her at the website shared with two talented sons: https://www.fairyflyentertainment.com

Find more by Lori R. Lopez in the Author Index.