I trembled and my heart failed within me, when, on looking up, I saw by the light of the moon the daemon at the casement. A ghastly grin wrinkled his lips as he gazed on me, where I sat fulfilling the task which he had allotted to me. Yes, he had followed me on my travels; he had loitered in forests, hid himself in caves, or taken refuge in wide and desert heaths; and he now came to mark my progress and claim the fulfilment of my promise. As I looked on him, his countenance expressed the utmost extent of malice and treachery. I thought with a sensation of madness on my promise of creating another like him, and trembling with passion, tore to pieces the thing on which I was engaged. The wretch saw me destroy the creature on whose future existence he depended for happiness, and with a howl of devilish despair and revenge, withdrew.
Mary Shelley, Frankenstien, 1823
In the style of Mary Shelley
She sat cradling a glass of warm wine, waiting, her heart pounding as her eyes rested on the artworks scattered about, wondering if she’d ever see them again. He finished his phone call and joined her, a deep tiredness evident in his red, sunken eyes and stiff gait. He kicked off his shoes, frustration given voice as his brogues slammed against the mantelpiece, and slumped into a chair. She’d prepared a speech but first let him talk about his day, another jagged rock in a career edifice built on early mornings, late nights, meetings, conferences and publications, that might have ended when he sat down but instead continued when he lifted his phone and began tapping, frowning into his screen as he asked her “What’s for dinner?”. And with that she stood and left the room, collecting her suitcase that he’d passed without noticing, and walked away.