Neon yellow can cut through darkness and seem so bright. During the daytime it would be barely visible, but whenever the sun went down it was enough illumination to wake you from a dead sleep if you turned the wrong way.
At current there were only four sounds in the riverside apartment where the bone-white girl laid her head. One, the drops of a leaky faucet in the kitchen. In a world of magical healers and dragon slayers, try finding a competent plumber. Two, the rhythm of a wooden ceiling fan. Magnolia leaf slats of brazilwood rotated ceaselessly and cast their shadows against the walls en route. Three, the noise drifting in from open windows. Near four o'clock in the morning it was only drunken giggles or swearing dock workers walking to work during the shift change. Four, the pulse of quick, shallow breaths. It was a miracle she breathed at all.
Air in constant motion, cold and penetrating, washed over what ought to have been a body deep in the rapture of sleep. The trouble with this concept was that dead things don't often slumber. Dead things don't dream.
Bare breasts were bound in worn jersey cotton sheets where once a wish-maker had laid his head and kisses upon his beloved. The girl laid here with eyes wide open. Thin arms were both wrapped like a python around an overstuffed pillow, above her head. Tonight the dead thing had fed fives times. Five souls, five drones, five lives and more, all destoryed by the raw force of insatiable hunger. Skinny bodies don't need that much food.
Like a balloon with too much water inside, glamour was spilling out and threatening to burst the vessel that held it.
As the neon yellow light of an alarm clock lit up an exposed back cerulean traces of ethereal light was oozing from glamoured peepers holding its vessel in complete rapture, too full to move.
Any good changling could warn you about the dangers of glamour. Too much will push you close to the Dreaming, the real Arcadia where happiness is tangible and sidhe walk without the need for a mortal mien. It was the voice of God that made your heart burst with joy and eyes melt from crying. It was the belly of pleasure where the senses were overwhelmed with ecstacy and the tingling release of sexual stimulation became the pounding climax, the pinnacle of orgasmic delight. The Dreaming was the source of heaven and insanity. A witless promethean might not know that gorging herself on magical energy would bring her so close to the Dreaming and to losing her grip on the world around her. Or, perhaps, she might.
What appeared to be a human girl sleeping was really a dead thing caught in the blissful web of the Dreaming.
At current there were only four sounds in the riverside apartment where the bone-white girl laid her head. One, the drops of a leaky faucet in the kitchen. In a world of magical healers and dragon slayers, try finding a competent plumber. Two, the rhythm of a wooden ceiling fan. Magnolia leaf slats of brazilwood rotated ceaselessly and cast their shadows against the walls en route. Three, the noise drifting in from open windows. Near four o'clock in the morning it was only drunken giggles or swearing dock workers walking to work during the shift change. Four, the pulse of quick, shallow breaths. It was a miracle she breathed at all.
Air in constant motion, cold and penetrating, washed over what ought to have been a body deep in the rapture of sleep. The trouble with this concept was that dead things don't often slumber. Dead things don't dream.
Bare breasts were bound in worn jersey cotton sheets where once a wish-maker had laid his head and kisses upon his beloved. The girl laid here with eyes wide open. Thin arms were both wrapped like a python around an overstuffed pillow, above her head. Tonight the dead thing had fed fives times. Five souls, five drones, five lives and more, all destoryed by the raw force of insatiable hunger. Skinny bodies don't need that much food.
Like a balloon with too much water inside, glamour was spilling out and threatening to burst the vessel that held it.
As the neon yellow light of an alarm clock lit up an exposed back cerulean traces of ethereal light was oozing from glamoured peepers holding its vessel in complete rapture, too full to move.
Any good changling could warn you about the dangers of glamour. Too much will push you close to the Dreaming, the real Arcadia where happiness is tangible and sidhe walk without the need for a mortal mien. It was the voice of God that made your heart burst with joy and eyes melt from crying. It was the belly of pleasure where the senses were overwhelmed with ecstacy and the tingling release of sexual stimulation became the pounding climax, the pinnacle of orgasmic delight. The Dreaming was the source of heaven and insanity. A witless promethean might not know that gorging herself on magical energy would bring her so close to the Dreaming and to losing her grip on the world around her. Or, perhaps, she might.
What appeared to be a human girl sleeping was really a dead thing caught in the blissful web of the Dreaming.