Patrick M. Wegner
Bio
I am a Malkavian that made it to ceremorphosis by accident; then I took my sweet time consuming the host implanted. I bear no prestige and no accolades. My only degrees rest in the spheres of passion, expression and ingenious stupidity.
Stories (14/0)
The Auroral Anapest
Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. Tonight, to indulge that circuit, materialized an alluringly baleful sight, Mirahlae; for she was now that sky. Her cassock forked cracks that fanned out from the folds covering her breast. Her arms unfurled to welcome an event inexplicably set in Earth's celestial courses as an inexhaustible hearth-stone. It was also a curse to remind us all that, to walk with an intent to fly is just as much a vision eternal, unfitted to temporal rhyme, as 'tis a book of actions with a spine held oft by a promise of the sure potential for one to run out of time.
By Patrick M. Wegner3 months ago in Fiction
Unmarked Poem #2
Milady, tis quite all the same. I will NOT beware. Life is not fair. Passion doesn't promise safety. This IS my art, to fang and drink from your heart. However pendulums fall later, it is my respect you keep, because it was earned. Whether you be a fairy or monster, when it's your ass in the air, as I rake my fingers in you, what I'm pulling is still just hair.
By Patrick M. Wegner10 months ago in Poets
Unmarked Poem #1
The trouble with taking peculiar fancies to a woman as sharp as you are: at times, you act blunted and deliberately glance her edge *just* long enough to see sparks fly, so you can look in her eyes. If you don't, you could displace a moment never again to be seized. You may also open too far and too quick; bleed too much, embarrass yourself and trail blood to your retreat where you might have found brief reprieve. Then suddenly, you have nowhere to rest, neither a place to heal freely.
By Patrick M. Wegner10 months ago in Poets
Dream Train, 2
The pipe-organs from whatever far-flung locale abruptly silenced some time ago. I didn't notice when, and I don't care right now. What moment did I just lose? What experience did I just miss? I wanted to kill her minutes ago, and I already imagine a kiss? What in the hell is this?
By Patrick M. Wegner10 months ago in Fiction
Dream Train
The cacophony of whispers spoke too oft to me: quiet cascades shuffling to-and-fro ruthlessly. Is it too early? Am I too late? Are we a hair's-breadth nigh? Have they made ready? Does Fate even care- yea, and it is not my hands in which She hath bestowed power over destinies?
By Patrick M. Wegner11 months ago in Fiction
