Gracefully, like a cat after it’s prey, she glided about the darkened rooms. She could hear the beating of his heart and smell the richness of his blood; she knew exactly where he was hiding. As she walked around the ancient, magnificently carved dining table, she smiled. “There you are, Father,” she said gently, “Don’t fret, your friend were quite the feast and I honestly couldn’t drink another drop.” He was fervently muttering the Vade retro satana sweat pouring from his brow. “Come now,” she cajoled “We all know your faith in the cross is not that strong, you’re a man, after all.” She looked towards the window, the last rays of the sun were setting on the day. “We’ve all night together, so, as they say in your canon, ‘Let us play’,” adding subconsciously, “with our food.”

I like creating the story, then the visual representation of it. It’s not a form of art per se, combining writing with art, but it passes the time.

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