Liam took some time to stretch now that he had time alone. Normally, he’d work out, but he wasn’t in the mood to bother with it much more than enough to keep limber. He felt restless, and Vince’s words about the Antediluvians rang through his head. Thinking them over, he headed into his room, having decided what to do. After a bit of rummaging through his closet, he unearthed a storage tote front he back of the top shelf, and pulled it down. It was just an unobtrusive, black, ten gallon storage tote, but within contained items he hadn’t touched in a few years.
After a pause to listen and make sure he was alone, he pulled the lid off and sifted through the contents, locating a sketchbook and some art supplies. He shoved the tote and lid under his bed with his foot, and then sat down to draw the images dancing in his head, as the words played around them. He knew there was a chance he might fill the book that night, but it was worth it to get to paper what was going through his mind. All would be given color as needed, he told himself. All would get their due. All would have their words.
In quiet, you will know beauty, in beauty you will know truth,
in truth you will know love, in love, you will know quiet.
He drew a woman, looking out a window at a cold, forlorn sea that raged against the rocks and pounded the sands of the beach. Birds flew through the sky, and in his mind he could hear their cries, echoing back to her. Behind her, an arm outstretched, was a vague apparition – and echo of love lost but not forgotten. As the sketch formed, he wrote the words meant to go with this bit of picture, using the charcoal stick, and effortlessly blending it into the paper.
My children, my creations my beautiful things
Watch and listen, listen and watch,
An old indigenous man, ancient and wise, sitting around a campfire, his listeners shrouded in shadow as he spoke. The smoke, spiraled up from the campfire, forming detailed visions, that wisped away to nothing the higher the smoke rose.
Use your sight,
to see the truth in beauty,
A sketch of a girl, arms folded across her chest, cheeks red with anger, shame, and guilt; taunted mercilessly by bullies, but within is a young man, yearning to get out, yearning to show the world their truth.
Use your speed,
to stay still,
A black man leaning against a bus stop at night, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, eyes closed as he l listened. The world around him moved on, with blurred movement and streaky lights. It was not that the world had moved on. It was simply that he was fast enough to see too much, to stay still and listen to the night.
Use your beauty,
to know truth.
A bordello woman, sitting at a vanity in front of a mirror, her translucent robe falling off of one shoulder. She stared into the mirror, dabbing away the heavy makeup that adorned her face, revealing the true beauty, the true self beneath.
My children, my creations, gentle roses all,
I have called for your sculpture
I have called for your pictures
I have called for your song
I have called for your dancing
An androgynous individual, dressed in a pair of jeans and a baggy hoodie, seen from the back, tending to a bevy of rosebushes, thorny and beautiful in their various states of life. Within the roses, tiny music notes, portraits, statues, and ballerinas were held close to the heart of the rose. It would not be untrue to say he was inspired some by the imagery of the rose form Stephen King’s Gunslinger series.
Beautiful children, beautiful creations
Gold is not as precious
Honey not as sweet
Milk not as pure
A set of brass scales. On the lighter half of these scales were gold bars and coins; jars of lightly spoiled honey, and pitchers of soured milk. On the heavier side, contained people, those of all kinds of diversity, twisting and writing with passion, exalting in their beauty; their unrecognized innocence.
Like the tiger, you bite, like the hawk, you dive,
like the cat, you stalk,
A tiger, lithe and predatory, attacking its prey with a harsh bite; a hawk dove to claim its share of the kill, while a small black cat waited, stalking the hawk, its eyes never wavering.
Beautiful predators!
Sweet succubi!
Daring incubi!
Taste virgin’s blood and find bliss!
Vampiric faces gleaned over a trio of helpless victims. Tongues licked lips, and one prepared to bite, while another had already bitten. Wings shaped like a bat’s adorned their backs. All were terribly beautiful, and terribly dangerous. The victims were only innocents.
Find your greatest part of Joy,
Follow your greatest part of Joy,
Dozens of silhouettes, practicing their arts. Roses paining or dancing; sketching or sculpting, moving like silk in the night. All indulging in their preference, all basking in their joy.
and know that I watch you, enthralled,
my children, my creations,
my beautiful ones.
A pair of eyes amidst the heavy darkness of night, naught but stars surrounding an unseen face. The moon shone, but still led no light to this intense stranger. A closer look would net the barest hint of fang among lips stained with blood, curved into a pleased smile.
He sketched furiously, yet with all the precision he could muster. His pencils were worn down, but he hadn’t felt a muse like this in years. Page after page was filled, colored in, and charcoal used to write in the appropriate words of the poem. The muse held fast, not letting go until it was time for him to bed down. He wondered why he was breathing heavily, and came to the conclusion that it had just been an intense night after a long dry spell. Though really, why was he breathing so hard? Why did he breathe at all as a vampire?
Grunting, he left his pencils and sketchbook on a bedside table before undressing, managing to pull the covers over himself as sleep grew heavy within his body. With any luck, no one would find the pictures. He wasn’t sure he was ready to share. He yawned, rolling over, and felt the empty space beside him and sighed. Perhaps, there was too much reflection right now. He shut his eyes tight, and waited for the sunrise to take him to the land of sleep.