Fibs Make Horrible Holiday Gifts

December 15, 2013
Eeriesoil, New York

Mother,

Fibs make horrible holiday gifts. Lying tongues shrivel the heart, dull the bite. Is that a raisin, caged between your ribs and the slug that used to be your spine? Blood deserves truth—I give you my refusal to feign fright at the sight of garlic crosses… just to fit your acquaintances’ myth of bliss.

Yours in blood,
Drusilla Amarantha Tepes, the Only

.
the wee notes…
– I don’t think you need to know the speaker’s story, or the details of her relationship with the subject, to appreciate this bit of prose poetry. But if you wish to know more about her, visit my Web Serials page, and check out, Drusilla; or, Camp Cute, Creepy and (quite conveniently) Remote.
– for Hedgewitch’s Friday 55 and the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

43 thoughts on “Fibs Make Horrible Holiday Gifts

  1. I’m with Drusilla – voluntarily go through an evening where I have to fake things for the comfort of others? Hell no. It’s good she has this much backbone for a youngster, well young for a vampire anyway.

  2. So many get fibs for their daily bread, it seems extra wrong to hand them out as gifts, too…this has iron in the blood, and we all know that is the oldest magic. I love what you have done here with prose and with poetry, to marry your message to a mere 55 words. Thanks for playing, dear Magaly, in the creepiest and most kickass way.

  3. Those lying tongues won’t last for long. Truth is ever bright and shining ❤️ and yes blood deserves it and more! The image of the raisin caged between ribs is thrilling, dark and terrifying. Thank you so much for adding your delicious poem to the party!❤️

  4. Once again, I love the original physical representation about lying tongues. The 55 is defiant and true and unapologetic, as it should be. But my favorite part by far is in the signature: The Only!

  5. As soon as I hear the name Drusilla I think of Buffy… and I see another character here… but I do love this frank letter… fibs are not gifts but sour raisins really… a grape no more, and nothing to make into sweet wine.

Leave a Comment