The following (very) short story was written for an assignment around 2002. I can't remember what the assignment was, but I think you can tell I modeled the writing after a certain famous author. Of course this prose is copywrited by me and may not be used without my permission and all that boring legal jive like that.
Upon the first night of the full moon, my true love came into my parlor, her lantern a dull blue from the frost, which had accumilated upon the panes. I was not intoxicated, but close to it, allowing me to visualize her floating over to the barren grate which at once began to rise and swell with the warmth of her presense. She could never explain her absence, so I said nothing. Instead, I watched her crimson hair flow in the light of the flames, the pinnacle of each wave seeming to catch fire in the wake of the dreary evening tide. The wind blasted against the window and I heard a branch, heavy with ice, fall from a tree.
I was by no means uncertain that Helen understood the mood of her companion. With the passing of each lonely night my love had grown colder until the frost of bitter resignation had settled in. She knew and I knew---thus, words became wasteful commodities. The icy hand of fate had brought her to me on this dreary night--to the man, who if given the opportunity, could conquer the passionate deamons residing within her soul. She poured a cup of strong, black tea and, kneeling by my side, made her offering. I could scarcely summon resolution to take the cup.
"How goes my lord?" she whispered in my ear and slipped her arm across my waist. When no voice replied, she laid her head upon my knee and murmered how she loved me. How one so pulchritudinous in appearance and voice could harbor such revolt in virtue I dared question not. For at present, the drink made her seem pure, bereft of her sexual will which I had only heard of and not witnessed.
She beseeched me to speak--she too weak in resolution to wait for her benevolent husband. Ah, beautiful, piteous flower! To be plucked before your time! If only you had waited to unveil your chaste flesh to the man you behold in wedlock! Upon the holy book we vowed till death do us part--death, my love! Death! Although the beating of your lustful heart echoes within my ears I know it yearns for another! With this terrible knowledge my own heart withers and grows cold--leaving me empty inside--devoid of feeling anything save emptiness--like the heart of a corpse. If only the beating of that heart could offer warmth to my own!
I began to comb my fingers through the waves, brushing it back from her pale skin and blushed cheek, glowing gold from the light of the blaze. Raising her head, I peered into the depths of her emerald eyes, joyous and sublime. Her hand floated up to mine.
At once despair fled from my soul as I gazed into her own. Her delicate features seemed to freeze in anticipation--at last I knew! Helen worshiped me! Astonishment made my heart swell--perhaps I could forgive her infidelity! For that moment Helen was mine, mine, perfect and virtuous. Her eyes gazed upon me, reflecting a soul yearning to be free from the purgatory of her desires. With most deliberate care, I set a hand on either side of her fragile skull and snapped her neck just as one would snap a twig in two.
Laying her head on my lap, I pushed back her fiery tresses so to expose those emerald eyes which beheld not a stain. The glow from the hearth seemed to search over the smooth plane of her cheek, blushing bright beneath my kiss.
My fair, beautiful Helen--thus you remain unstained and pure. Just as the flower withers under the frost of the winter moon, so, too, would your beauty have decayed within your lovers' chambers. Alas! I have saved you this fate.
Helen, thy beauty is to me...a fragile thing, created out of innocence and purity which time swiftly erodes away. The flower of spring's garden blooms only to beckon bees, then withers and dies in the autumn breeze. So you see, my beloved Helen, my only wish is the press the flower before it dries.