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The Prose Masquerade Think about what monster or creature you would most enjoy emulating if you were forced to become it for the rest of your life. (You can't say a businessman is a monster and take the easy route out). Within the realms of ghouls, ghosts, vampires, centaurs, etc., pick your poison, and craft something that shows how you would cope at your worst, your best, in your newfound existence of monstrosity. Let the words run. The winner gets a trick or treat box from me.

Succubus

To be that which creeps not by night but beneath a shade of awareness. She is openly displayed; her charms, physical, emotional, intellectual, pieces of the person who is whole, sum of the person who is empty. She does not appear in dreams for there is nothing more objective than her vision of reality.

Perhaps I should remind you that she does not flit in shadow for thieves are there, murderers are there, criminals who enact unimaginative sins. She despises these for at least two reasons. Her movements are lofty and proud and unrepentant. In fact, her actions are so subtle, so insidious, that even she is unaware of her motives. She must have moments of lucidity surely but I wouldn't know for sure.

She drains the loins but only to administer a steady dose of poison upon the spirits of men. The nearest emotion to joy she possesses is to observe a brokenhearted man, how he fumbles for words, how he lowers his eyes, how he drinks until he forgets himself. Her arteries grow bulbous as the venomous flow of satisfaction travels from head to toe.

She is not shy but she may act so. She is not vindictive, at first. Many an unsuspecting male has staggered to her charms like mice to a scorpion. She will smile, she will openly do so, but she will not cry without witnesses for her greatest cloak is the virtue of other women. This is her armour, her perfect alibi to remain loved but unlovable.

Her skin is pale but it is not for wont of the sun, she basks in the rays of her beauty, however, her vanity is not that she's beautiful (for all women are beautiful) but that she knows it's precise value and what can be obtained with it.

Upon the crackling shells of men she treads with feet as bare and smooth as the sea, her hair aligned with the whispering winds, her eyes afire with disingenuous passion, her thighs as deeply rooted in earth. She is all elements, for she is woman, but not all women are her.

Would I enjoy being her? Does she enjoy it?

Monstrosity knows neither choice nor joy.

Could I be her?

We all could be her.

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