Topic: By the pricking of thy thumbs...

Madison Rye

Date: 2009-10-26 08:46 EST
Your torments call us like dogs in the night. And we do feed, and feed well. To stuff ourselves on other people's torments. And butter our plain bread with delicious pain... Funerals, marriages, lost loves, lonely beds " that is our diet. We suck that misery and find it sweet. We can smell the young ulcerating to be men a thousand miles off. Mr Dark

The provocatively red rose with its scarlet ribbon sat on the vanity in her rented hotel room. It had sat there all day and was still there, when she got in from the Masquerade, smelling the cheap punch and expensive wine on her breath as she drew off her hat and hung it over the knob of her bed. She yawned and was half way through undressing when she remembered the delivery and instantly looked around towards the vanity to see if the token was still there. Her chest heaved, as it had been doing all night whenever she thought of the damned thing, and she held back that sigh. She just wanted to sleep. To hide under all the blankets.


Madison had no idea who the rose was from. Madison had never in her life received roses. And she couldn't for the life of her guess as to who would send them. She had no paramour, not even a potential, and any man she knew was a colleague or a poker partner, so that eliminated the first round. There was nothing between herself and any of those men, not Sal anymore, and she had decided, firmly, not with Karras either. The first thought to run through her mind was that the rose was a joke. If not a joke then it was poisoned. Laced thorns meant to prick her like Aurora's spindle in castle high... And if it wasn't either of the first two bets, if it indeed was a gesture of affection, it concerned her more than the other two options. Magenta? Was she sorry twice, as she had suggested she could, would be? Was this symbolic of the flower to be tossed upon her grave as it went under, once Arts had had her way? Or was it from the devil herself, the Skeleton, as some way to garner Madison's friendship? Who was it that was trying to appeal to the winsome woman underneath the worn blouse and jeans, when the guns were stripped off and she was alone in bed?


She didn't like it. She didn't like at all. Whatever it was, whatever it meant....


Half clothed she got under covers and hid away, ignoring the strange gift for the time being. Sleep was too thick to ignore, fogging her mind with the Sandman's coax. Yet words played over and over, the whispers of the autumn folk. ...


Bad girl
You don't belong here
..Not anymore
You didn't have to dress up tonight, did you? You are what you fear the most..

Bad, bad, bad girl.

Come away.. Come away... Come away... Fly the rooftops! Sail the thunderheads! Come dance macabre!

Madison Rye

Date: 2009-10-31 02:41 EST
Here Be Monsters

Wet ringlets of hair were pawed through as she came bare-feet padding out of the shower, towel wrapped like a present to a lover on a particularly steamy evening. However much she suited such a portrait, the reality wasn't the case. The room was empty except for her, the incense of cold rain that was her scent and, of course, the provocative red rose on her vanity.

She felt a disappointment of a sort that it wasn't a signature of admiring. That it was what she had supposed it really was; a memento mori with those lush velvetine petals. That's all. Just another reminder - If you do not play by our rules, you will die.

The Angels of Truth. The Lawmen of Lofton. The Kindred.

Halloween. Every day felt like Halloween.

There were wolves, and they wanted very much to tear her apart.

Throwing on her sleep rail, she sat on the edge of the bed and let her hair dry in the cosy of the room and shined her gun. She shined it with a compulsion, until the reflections shone and pierced, hurt the eyes like knives of light.

Madison Rye

Date: 2009-11-04 07:32 EST
Just because the devil likes young girl's flesh

The tightrope was a long walk. Hell behind and hell in front and all she could do was keep her head low and walk like the widow she was. Grieving her once life and this unlife. Undead but, oh, unliving too.


Perpetual Misery rang out across the streets of West End. Pigeons rattled and rustled in their coops. Madison took a seat on the edge of a rooftop swinging her feet. She watched the sunset and felt something else set, right over the horizons of her heart.


Gunslinger. Gravedigger. Magician's Assistant. Heartbreaker. Loner.


The temptation was strong to stick a stake right through her own heart. But even death had denied her. She had been in its lovin' arms for only moments before Magenta had resurrected her. Salvador had once said she was strong enough to spit in death's face, well, death had spat back at her the night the Turning took place. Now she was like a bitch on heat, bloodhungry and with all the moon-mourning of a wolf, the pacing, the whining when La Lune revealed all of her pristine, china-white self and the animal came out. Sheila would bay for hours. Madison used to feel some strange symbiosis with the mutt, wanted to hollar and yell at the skies too. Especially now that she was forsaken by time and space, feeling like a mongrel.


"Come out, bitches. Come on", she whispered to the roads. The show down would come. Her bones told her so. The way Arts' blood that filled her veins thrummed a soon, soon, soon.

Madison Rye

Date: 2010-01-12 21:49 EST
Heel to the shovel and she dug a 6' space for some body to fill. A stranger by the name of Tom Lott. Sixty five and a farmer. The gravesite was muddy from recent rain and the slough of soil was taking longer than it usually should. That was either because she was so darn tired or the deception of sleep, hazing her, drugging her smile. The moon was cutting the dawn in two as the sun tried to peek over a steady stream of orange and blue clouds, mixing and tossed like smoke from a dragon or giant. Morning chills crept along her spine. Along her shins. She grunted and tossed the shovel aside. Unspooled the hose.


The grasses were growing. Going to need another caretaker. Lofton was close and she wasn't going to have time to dig out any daisies. Just file a few souls down for their own, elsewhere, in unmarked, unwritten plots on the edge of the desert where the scavengers walked.


Dreams hung like empty pockets, old linen on a washing line. Sometimes they flickered out to touch the inside of her wrist, the nape of her neck, the tail of her spine. Reminding, reminding.


By the time noon rolled in on weary legs she was seven ditches across and onto her eighth when her eyes came upon the plot for Ezra and she found herself recoiling. Damn bastard. Face to dirt with deeds done. How many more Hexxmen would go down, and would they go down at all?

Well, this time she was the walking dead. And she had army of kin to follow her into war. Laughing all the way.