edgar allan poe style

Happy Birthday to my precious cinnamon roll, Edgar Allan Poe, my sunshine!

Poe often said that the lot of poetry - to embody perfection. Under perfection he meant order, proportionality and harmony.

Poe was criticized for a tendency to formalism, mechanistic, since the main purpose why it is considered to preserve the unity and integrity of the artistic experience, lies in the harmony of form and content, and he paid it much attention, but I am actually in love with Poe’s writing style.

Movies or TV shows I want to see (but are not made yet)
  • How Morticia and Gomez Addams met, how they fell in love and grew up (possibly played by Eva Green and Oscar Isaac)
  • A movie/tv series about the wammy boys from death note (and their tragic pasts)
  • A movie/tv series about the Black Familiy over the centuries and the childhood of Sirius and Regulus Black 
  • A movie about the young marauders 
  • A movie about the founders of Hogwarts
  • A series about all the other magical wizarding schools all over the world
  • A series that takes place only in the works/world of Edgar Allan Poe (and his pet racoon)
  • A game of thrones-style epic series about the greek gods. season one is about the ancient greek times and season two ist about the greek gods today, what happened to them during the times and where they are now
  • Then a spin off with northern mythology and other mythologies, there is the possibility for crossovers, when the different gods randomly met through the centuries
  • Oh, and Ezra Miller could be cast in several of these things

The Monster and the Mad King

(One-Shot: Bellatrix allows her inner demons to entrance her to the dark side of life, while her father is the narcissistic king of Black Manor. (Inspired style by Edgar Allan Poe’s writings also this was not beta read or edited. Mistakes were made.)

Trigger Warnings: Homicidal thoughts, hints of self-harm, hints of verbal abuse, narcissistic abusive parent, romanticizing the darkness within, Bellatrix being Bellatrix

Black Manor was big but never big enough. It was the solace of a noble lineage, my family. It was the center of our operations, our castle to our rule. The Blacks were ancient and powerful. Flaunting it was only natural, even though we were one of the twenty-eight pureblooded families; however, we, of course, were the best. That philosophy was ingrained in us from birth, and I was the best of them all even when they disdainfully sneered at me as a disappointment for my special brand of darkness.

The manor was my playground of wickedness and disorder. I took after my father rather well. I knew all the secret passages of our home, and so did my righteous parent. Of course, he knew. This was his home as a child as well. It became his own little kingdom where he’s king, and his subjects must be reminded of their place. How ironic those of his family met the qualifications of subjects and not equals. No one was equal to him. He was pristine to rule - absolute above all else - and he never stopped reminding us.

Never question the king.

I was the defiant eldest of the three daughters. I was the troubling rabble that wouldn’t stand to be targeted, a victim of the crown. I, Bellatrix Black, still held my name proudly like the royalty I was taught I was, though quickly everyone seemed to learn I was the heir they wish they never had. I took the beatings for it, even if only savage verbal assaults, but I never stood down. I am a force of which not to be reckoned with, and that would not stand in the kingdom of Cygnus Black III.

Do not defy the king.

I knew all the ways around to avoid him. Often when I was younger if I caught sight of him, or heard his heavy footsteps echoing off the hallowed walls, I’d find a new route. He always found me anyway. It didn’t matter how well I concealed myself. He always found me.

Now I’m older and wiser. The Mad King should watch his shadow, as I have my monstrous self lurking there. After all, I’m the tempest of darkness and havoc he always preached plagued him.

Though I remember some days I just didn’t have the energy to avoid father. To him, I was the trouble child for himself and mother, but they didn’t realize how much of a trouble child I was to my own person. Inner demons really drain the life out of you, but now they’re my only friends.

I’ve always been soulmates with sorrow. I can’t remember a time when life wasn’t designed in shades of melancholic greys. The dark thoughts and personal conflicts, however, introduced me to a new color - red, the color of revenge, passion, beautiful sanguine mayhem. Now that sorrow mixed its pigments with this new color. Strokes of black contrasted with splatters of red, mixing, creating unthinkable hues. The darkness blurred the lines between my head and reality, who I was, and the tempest of malevolence I strove to be.

My life soon became painted in blood.

No one understood besides my inner demons, after all, they were the only ones to listen.

Who was there to comfort me when my father instigated me, and then voiced warrant that I am the King’s antagonist?

My inner demons calmed the twitch for my favorite blade, promising a plan was better than rash action.

Who was there to comfort me when my father refused to listen to reason, writing me off as insane.

My inner demons told me the best of people were mad with emotion, not power like him.

Who was there when the world looked at me, and rejected every fiber of my being because I’m different, the black sheep; when the kingdom claimed I was as mad as its king, and a danger to them all.

My inner demons took my hand like a lover and whispered sweet chaotic nothings to me.

Prove it to them, echoed in my head.

I would love to dare that narcissistic coward to hit me. I could see that anger burn in him. I could see his hand raise, wanting to make my skin red and sting. I want him to do it. Provoke the monster he claimed I was, and see what I’d do.

I wanted to use every anger fueled plan I devised. I had many you see. It’s what I spent my nights doing when he drove his laws onto me when he spat his unwanted judgments and unsolicited opinions. I could write an instruction guide on how to tear down the foulest of people with an equally deplorable torture. The Mad King, after all, was the muse to it.

I waited for it, but it never came. He never struck.

It was incredibly bland when I learned most of his threats were purely poetic and empty. Unlike his sister, Walburga, he was afraid to cast an unforgivable on his children. The Mad King Cygnus was afraid of his heir, as he should be.

I don’t need magic to kill him.

Mother was no better. She pretended it didn’t happen. To her, it was better to just pretend her marriage was happy, but she looked drained and dead inside.

Now, she even sometimes agreed with Cygnus. She’d fallen for her own con.

The queen sat next to her king, playing along like a puppet. There was never an ounce of individuality to her. She was the doll made by her parents, now posed on display. Sometimes I missed her passive aggressive jabs. It was better than the boring shell she was now. I could kill her, but I had better things to do that end her suffering as a damsel in distress.

Do not usurp the king for he is his own undoing.

Alas, I have my monsters to tend to. They saved and fought with me. We’d sit and talk. They turn my tears into productive anger, hate, brooding passion. They convinced me to stop putting a blade to my skin, and plan to put it to someone else’s, preferably father’s.

If I was left alone, I was never truly alone.

In the shadows, they would wait for me. They’d call my name and offer their toxic declarations, seductive whisperings and sweet suggestions of anarchy.

I’d swallow all their words like they were my last hope of life. They were my only chance to thrive.

They were my drug, my addiction that alleviated the terrors of reality.

My hidden hellions were the family I so desperately needed. Unlike the kingdom around me, the accepted my darkness, indeed they feed and flourished off of it.

They proclaimed me their Dark Queen, and I happily wore their macabre crown. The bones of my enemies crunching beneath my heel as I built my throne.

Because if you can’t defeat your own demons, join them.

Then the world will tremble and burn in my wake.

To the Mad King I say, checkmate.


Spirits of the Dead (1968), a French-Italian horror anthology of 3 macabre tales by Edgar Allan Poe directed by Roger Vadim, Louis Malle and Federico Fellini, starring James Robertson Justice, Peter Fonda, Jane Fonda, Brigitte Bardot, Alain Delon and Terence Stamp. Strange, surreal and indulgent, it wears its pop art macabre late-60s ludicrousness on its gothic sleeves with style.