Memories and Nightmares

Another Friday night found me, once again, making my way among the headstones to the old oak in the middle of it all. I pulled out my pack of cigarettes and thoughtlessly put one to my mouth, lighting it with a flash of blood red nails and pale fingers.

With a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of dark merlot in the other, I wove absentmindedly through crumbling memorials of granite and marble. Tombs reared menacingly in the distance but I paid them no mind. Not all were sleeping soundly here, but I didn’t care, there was too much wine in me to give a damn. I still heard them though, and they knew I could.
Off in the distance, the moon’s waning light cast eerie shadows on the 3 a.m. fog and I shivered instinctively underneath my coat.
Deep into the heart of the graveyard I made my way, stumbling occasionally but never falling. Finally, I found my place, a 400 year old oak standing in the very heart of the cematary. Silently I tossed my coat on the ground and sat beneath my tree. Lighting another cigarette, I pulled a black, bound book and pen from the recesses of my bag and began drawing the scene in front of me.
A crypt, fallen in on the left, occupied most of my view. I had been in there many times but the sounds were too much, echoing off the marble lined walls. It was there that I first discovered who I was, and it was in that cold tomb that I learned how to hear the dead. That is something I now wish I hadn’t learned. But, its too late for that, isn’t it?
I remember when I used to go to church and even pray. It seems like an eternity ago, but it wasn’t any more than five or six years. At twenty, I felt old, older than I was. I had seen a lot and been through even more, but I digress.
For some reason, I wanted to remember this place, to have a picture of it, just to prove to myself that it wasn’t a dream, that this place was real.
For so long, I wandered these paths, arms laden with candles and a grimore or two. Candles were pointless anymore. I ended up learning too much and now I don’t need them, I have fire when I snap my fingers.
The smells of decay pervaded my nose for a moment and I remembered the first time I came her. I was 14 and thought it’d be cool to smoke out in one of the crypts. My friends got scared and left. I stayed in there, and something happened. I changed. Since then, I have come here to practice and to learn. Too bad I can’t unlearn what the dead have to tell. I don’t want to know any more.
My sketch is finished and I sign my name. Slowly I close my sketchbook and stand up, brushing the earth from my skirt. I place the book on a shelf in the tomb, no one will see it, let alone take it. Maybe I would come back to get it someday. After all, it had been good to me, just not to those I knew.
With a final swirl of cloth, I turn and stride from my crypt, glancing one last time at the tree I have practiced beneath for years. My wine is gone and I am drunkenly weary. Back out of the mists I go, seeing streetlights for the first time in what seems like eons. Its over now, I give back my gift, until I should need it again.

By AriealaLeFey

5'2 pale sylph, red hair, green eyes, slight build, talons (on hands and through ears) building up to 13 tattoos (no more no less)


  1. It makes that feeling stronger…that aching little echo in the back of my mind that I can’t get to go away.

    In other words, I liked it, too.


  2. Surreal, but nice. Conjures up scenes of black and white graveyards and leather bound books… scenes we know all too well.

  3. Wow is all i can say it made me think and i love you r writing style
    its sureal but posible
    good work


  4. Necroscopes Always make me wonder, and i wonder if i could hear the dead, would i want to? Maybe, Maybe not. I would certainly find it interesting…..kind of makes you wonder…. is it the wind, or the breath of the dead?

  5. Although this piece is interesting I don’t see a whole lot of ‘surreal’ here. It’s fairly commonplace in both the plot and structure, although better written than some I have seen.
    I’ve always had more of an appreciation for writing that stems of original thought, but this isn’t without it’s merits.

    Keep writing, B.

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