Here rings the next bell and another step forwards towards the great beast. The bells sound, roaring a great destruction. Gothoc spires decay in the moonlight all while the Witch bleeds. Her eyes wide on the beast.
The young woman wears her emotions outward, while the Witch swallows hers down like the most horrible tonic. The Witch helps where she is able, all while trying to learn the young woman's part. But every time they're swallowed down, glass littering the floor.
In a daze, the wall connects with my temples. Vision wobbles, wanting to turn black. Swallow the black swill, it's your only hope.
Your lips against mine send my senses to blaze. My body fills with warmth and the delicate touch of your painted fingertips on my neck send my heart reeling. You pull me closer into an embrace and free my hair of its elastic prison. Our eyes find each other’s again before our lips touch, sending … Continue reading Electric Touch
Dull that pain, through any means, the Thinker says. The Witch watches on as he gathers herbs, salves, potions. A fading song in the air dances around and his ears twitch. Over time, the Witch knows the painkillers are there for the Thinkers benefit, attempting to provide any opportunity to acquire more. But the Thinker … Continue reading Painkiller
The snake had suffocated the Thinker hundreds of miles away. Her heart stood behind stone and masonry, many miles more. It crumbled and tumbled, the young Witch sat hugging her bare knees, hiding her face. Her frail hands, her nails clenched deep into her flesh, staining protein in the rust.
Swivel round and round, three points. Only one private, at least in appearance. I make my way round, each swivel becoming more and more bogged down by an occlusion. Gel filling the chamber and into my lungs, pushing the air out. I try to cry out but my mouth held tight by hands with fish … Continue reading Craning
Where are you at? I don't know your name. Time and again I feel like you're teasing me in a most cruel way, slinking away like smoke.
One, two, three. Tickets dispensed, potions made. Slap your hands clean, dip them in hot cauldrons, burn away the remains with poisons. Repeat. Throw in a few clients. Smile and appease, repeat.
They prep for the excursion buying flasks of water, strapping a pint to their sides, weighing out their costumes. I put on my pointed hat, leathers. My outfit draws my mirror's smile. I promise myself to finally get a bowl of the ever delicious smelling mushroom soup.