Tag Archives: paranormal romance

The Lost Chronicle ©️

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Verse 1

And it came to pass in the fifth year of his vow, that the man stood as a watchman upon the walls of his own soul.

Verse 2

For he had set himself apart, and he walked not in the ways of the multitude, nor bowed unto the idols of flesh.

Verse 3

His bed was without stain, his heart girded as with iron, and the heat of the world touched him not.

Verse 4

But lo, a shadow entered the stillness of his thought, and in the eye of his mind there stood a woman, arrayed in beauty beyond the daughters of men.

Verse 5

She spake without her tongue, yet her presence poured forth a flood of images, and the flood was of abominations.

Verse 6

And he beheld her works, and saw they were not unto love, but unto the undoing of the soul.

Verse 7

Then he divided himself in twain: with one part he beheld her beauty, and with the other he discerned the poison thereof.

Verse 8

Her perfection was a snare, her touch a chain, her sweetness as the honey of the locust, bitter when it hath passed the tongue.

Verse 9

And he turned his face from her, and her power was broken; for she was as smoke before the wind and vanished from his sight.

Verse 10

Then was there a great silence, and it was as a witness unto him; for the might of a man is in knowing what pleasure would make of him were he to yield unto it.

Verse 11

So he held fast his vow, his heart established, his spirit as a fortress that is not moved.

Big Daddy ©️

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I don’t sleep.

Not really.

I drift between worlds—somewhere between bark and breath, between memory and myth.

They call me Bigfoot.

Like I’m a punchline.

Like I’m not ancient.

I wake in the cradle of fog, the forest wrapped around me like a secret. My chest rises slow. My thoughts… slower. A tree above me creaks in rhythm with my spine.

The day begins not with light, but with scent.

Rain.

Moss.

A lost woman’s shampoo.

I move through the woods without sound. The deer don’t run. The wind doesn’t mind me. I pass through the world like a half-forgotten prayer.

Around noon, I run. Because sometimes the blood needs to burn.

Through trees. Over roots.

I chase the rhythm of the earth itself—until I remember I’m the thing people chase.

Then I see her.

Standing at the edge of the ravine, camera dangling, breath caught between a gasp and a giggle. She’s not scared. Not really.

Curious.

Like Eve before the bite.

She stares at me like I’m real. Like she’s never seen anything more alive. And I—beast that I am—feel… seen.

She lifts her hand.

So do I.

And when our fingers almost touch, something ancient hums between us. Not romance. Not lust. Something wilder. Something not meant for words.

I don’t stay.

Because legends don’t linger.

We haunt.

We remind.

We vanish.

As night falls, I sit by a cold creek, moonlight painting my fur silver. Somewhere, an owl calls my name in a voice only I remember.

And in the dark, I whisper back—not with words. With longing.

Because I am not the monster.

I am the memory that walks.