Autumn wind, for the moment, was the only sound whispering through the midnight hour struck city of Rhydin. Cloudless this night, the sky was an abstract artist's palette of the celeste; twinkling, mystic, and ever endless. Answers and questions alike had been found in those expanses. Many an eye looked up even now, contemplative and anxious all at once. Some shifted foot to foot, dressed common or exotic as they pleased. Though their faces were different from one to the other, on and on down the small, secretive throng they made, one link bound them.
The Spinster.
'How do you know its here"' Half whispered, half murmured; a small crowd had gathered beneath the night-brought-to-life-glow of a neon, dark rebuking spray paint tag on a back alley wall. A bright mop of toxic pink hair answered the stubby-chinned lad with a point to that neon paint on the brick wall.
'Shhh! You must be new....I've been following her for years. She never plays in the same spot twice.' Said the bubble-gum dream of a nymph.
'She"' Came the man's hushed counter.
More mutterings, more restless shuffles; all were silenced by the sudden clatter of spinner's gear and a box of shuffling discs. Speakers were emerging, moved by willing hands. Faint light rigs began to be strung, and in the distance, a lone pair of feet tapped softly down the cobbled brick of the alleyway. Silence, dead as a doornail; so quiet, the ricochet of a pin would shatter the unprepared eardrum. It was here. It was tonight; tonight in dregs of the back alley, that Theo spun her capitulating bass and pulse.
Bodies writhed.
Hot and slick soon within the cornered confines of the lonely alley. Lights flared, drowned out by the dark twinkle from the sky above. Throbbing tunes gripped the mass of the crowd like a lover never to let go, sinking deeper than any fire-inspired heat. Bleeding, flooding, enthralling, invigorating, rejuvenating.
Something more than sweat and exertion inspired bliss rode the air about the rave scene; pure, creative ecstasy poured through the squirming crowd. A miasma of revelation, a fine finesse of eureka. The supernatural, the fae, and the human folk alike were drawn together in this swarm, drawn by the Muse.
Her arms were a constant flurry of motion with all the passion of a Master painter in the thrall of his composition. Stroking, spinning, whirling, striking out with all the lean lank of her supple limbs to command the tables as she wished. Scratching basses were controlling strings for the limbs of her subjects. Hips bounced back and forth, eyes either closed or half drawn, lost in her own haunt. Skin clinging mini skirts carved from sleek leathers. Tops designed to hang off this shoulder or that, baring a barren-flat midriff, cupping the minute glory of dapple apple breasts. Curling and flyaway ebony strands collected, half beaded, here or there along the pale of her furious, tranced brow. A mistress of song and dance, of poetic innovation, she worked without tiring. How else could these people please themselves but please her?
To drown and sink down. To take a deep breath and let go. To swoon, to sway, to cave in and float away. ________________________________ ________________________________ http://fc00.deviantart.com/fs28/f/2008/072/7/b/it__s_the_dj____by_kawayreaver.jpg
The Spinster.
'How do you know its here"' Half whispered, half murmured; a small crowd had gathered beneath the night-brought-to-life-glow of a neon, dark rebuking spray paint tag on a back alley wall. A bright mop of toxic pink hair answered the stubby-chinned lad with a point to that neon paint on the brick wall.
'Shhh! You must be new....I've been following her for years. She never plays in the same spot twice.' Said the bubble-gum dream of a nymph.
'She"' Came the man's hushed counter.
More mutterings, more restless shuffles; all were silenced by the sudden clatter of spinner's gear and a box of shuffling discs. Speakers were emerging, moved by willing hands. Faint light rigs began to be strung, and in the distance, a lone pair of feet tapped softly down the cobbled brick of the alleyway. Silence, dead as a doornail; so quiet, the ricochet of a pin would shatter the unprepared eardrum. It was here. It was tonight; tonight in dregs of the back alley, that Theo spun her capitulating bass and pulse.
Bodies writhed.
Hot and slick soon within the cornered confines of the lonely alley. Lights flared, drowned out by the dark twinkle from the sky above. Throbbing tunes gripped the mass of the crowd like a lover never to let go, sinking deeper than any fire-inspired heat. Bleeding, flooding, enthralling, invigorating, rejuvenating.
Something more than sweat and exertion inspired bliss rode the air about the rave scene; pure, creative ecstasy poured through the squirming crowd. A miasma of revelation, a fine finesse of eureka. The supernatural, the fae, and the human folk alike were drawn together in this swarm, drawn by the Muse.
Her arms were a constant flurry of motion with all the passion of a Master painter in the thrall of his composition. Stroking, spinning, whirling, striking out with all the lean lank of her supple limbs to command the tables as she wished. Scratching basses were controlling strings for the limbs of her subjects. Hips bounced back and forth, eyes either closed or half drawn, lost in her own haunt. Skin clinging mini skirts carved from sleek leathers. Tops designed to hang off this shoulder or that, baring a barren-flat midriff, cupping the minute glory of dapple apple breasts. Curling and flyaway ebony strands collected, half beaded, here or there along the pale of her furious, tranced brow. A mistress of song and dance, of poetic innovation, she worked without tiring. How else could these people please themselves but please her?
To drown and sink down. To take a deep breath and let go. To swoon, to sway, to cave in and float away. ________________________________ ________________________________ http://fc00.deviantart.com/fs28/f/2008/072/7/b/it__s_the_dj____by_kawayreaver.jpg