M->O->R->T
[experimental vampyre fiction]
At dawn, at the “Cum Barrel”,
I sit alone, drink whisky and cry.
In vain my eternal carabine
Hangs from my silver, at my saddlebow.
Emil Brumaru, Blues1
hear now of Mort
the one who wears a silken kerchief around the neck
to hide the marks of the bite that will not fade
not through hunger not through time
not through all the faces worn like borrowed masks
a friend long buried once said
perhaps you are the one keeping them alive the marks the masters Mort knows not
but that was the age when men spoke of the unconscious
as though the darkness in the mind were a new country
and she said how can it be unconscious
when none of us are truly awake
men think their lives are precious
they guard them as kings guard gold
but Mort knows better
for they have had many lives
have changed from one to another
as one turns a switch
presses a button
less than a thought
a reflex born before the dawn of speech
Mort remembers the earth before gas and glass and television
a world lit only by fire
where gods and monsters walked beside men
their dreams the breath of nations
their silence the slow decay of peace
and Mort remembers
men thought themselves immortal then
as they do now
for life is quicker now
and men are many
but they are lonelier than ever before
now they are hermits before the screen
worshipping the cold machine
their only devils
those they summon from their own unrest
Mort may not remember who Mort was
but Mort remembers when she and he and they saw Doru Moroiu
tall and white and princely like a statue and a star
see mother how it aches in me
my chest beats like a trapped bird
blue veins rise across my breast
a fire stirs within and cold climbs my spine
my lips burn mother and my cheeks grow pale
ah my heart it trembles it flees from me
it asks and I know not what it asks
I know not what to give
warm and cold at once it crawls through my veins
my arms hold nothing and yet they hold something still
since the mark appeared
Mort has stood outside every circle
servant and ghoul
coin in the hand of unseen masters
they seldom knew Mort was there
he would have fled
would have vanished into the earth
but the mark pulled him back
and sometimes it spoke to her
Mort never spoke to Mort
for that way lay the endless mirror
and in that mirror one would die
or both live forever in the same breath
so mort waited
for the mark to speak instead
and gave it not to the masters
not to the false saviours
not to those who never knew his name
De-aș fi pasăre ca cucu’
aș zbura unde mi-e gândul.
a string pulls Mort still
Lady Uta sends her shadowed men
and each has a favour to ask
none ever ask about Mort
their willing ghoul their servant
mort walks but never far
for the grave is the measure of his road
now Mort walks in Câmpulung-Muscel
New Wallachia the winter air sharp
and before him sits a Notary
a shade with ink for blood
and Mort cannot hide what he feels
no matter the face worn this hour
the Notary says
kid you don’t like me that’s fine
if this goes smooth you won’t see me long
my client’s got holes in their chain of title
they say you’re a master of disguise
play an old man
play an old woman
play the son of a ghost
and the ruin sells for gold
who complains when they’re paid
Mort does not get paid
Mort does not complain
she goes to the town hall as an old crone
the cane is too new
but only Mort would see it
and the thought clings to her mind
until her tongue grows tangled
before the not-young-anymore lady of the hall
the one she must persuade
and in the end it works
not because of Mort
but because a ninety-year-old woman
is expected to be lost in her words
then she plays the son of Căciulă
a friend of Doru Moroiu
back when he was still Moroșanu
and she overplays it
but it lands
for Mort remembers the midnight fishing
remembers the spell that woke the fish
remembers Căciulă drunk
and herself in the arms of Mrs. Căciulă
the young lover distracted
and so the lie becomes truth
the lady of the hall thinks all men are children
and Mort is saved by her disdain
the Notary says
you’re that good kid
our papers passed
want to work again
forget it
maybe I’ll be dead tomorrow
if not you’ll find me when you must
and poor old Mort waits again
for years that mean nothing
for Mort is dying
the marks fade with the last evening light
and in the hour before dawn
age falls upon Mort like a hammer
in an instant all his years return
and Mort no longer knows what Mort was
before the bite upon the throat
and old age came back with an—
Thank you for reading, beloved netherwalker!
I hope you had as much fun reading this piece as I did writing it.
I owe a special thanks to
And if you’re craving a more classic strain of my vampyre fiction, here are a few bites for your night reading:
This so fucking dope. I am wowed
I can tell you that this is next level "Vampyre Fiction" because this feels like vampire fact. There are lives I have lived in this piece. Something nostalgic. Great read.