SneakPerhaps she had never been firm enough around Marty. Although as teasing as their encounters were, she could not resist making him work for even the slightest touch at times. There were times she would willingly embrace him, or allow the briefest of kisses to her cheek and such. Any larger gestures deemed much hesitance from her, and much shying away and gentle protests. He always did manage, though.Sneak by decayingfingers
Usually, he was sneaky about it. Approaching her when she was least aware of it, and departing so quickly that she hardly caught who it happened to be. There was always a scowl offered his way, before she would turn and smile if he did indeed leave for the time being. It was a foolish cycle they had, but one she found herself enjoying more and more with the passing days.
There were times where she discovered him laying on the couch of her home, or sitting in the chair behind the desk at the shop. Either way, there were days she could expect him to show up and days when she could not expect
Child of shadowsTiny hands and blooded fingertipsChild of shadows by SentimentallyScared
She has seen far too much
A tiny heart beats a steady melodic tune
Breath; soft as the snowflakes she melts
She dreams of dancing flames and crystal raindrops
She recalls those blades glimmering in the moonlight
The piercing scream that shattered her silent slumber
The blood that soaked the silk white sheets she lay upon
A darkening shadow engulfs her tiny fragile mind
She's crawling further within herself
Hiding from the passion she denies
Voices, whispering, calling to her from the darkness
What makes them call? What makes her so terrified?
A world of shadow and silhouettes roaming beyond
Sirens of death resonate through her head
They have come for her on stallions painted black
Crimson tears fall from their tainted faces
To where those blooded wildflowers grow
There she lies amongst the crimson bloom
Ready to be taken to the realm of shadows
Her Mechanical HeartThe noise churned from the subterranean depthsa low, agonized groan as of dying machinery. Something like a grind of melancholy gears, steel bones on wearied bellows: a clockwork heart attack.Her Mechanical Heart by orphicfiddler
The Woman rose.
She was old in the way of damask curtains, the color bleached and powdery, with the strength of wilting threads. Her face was an oak tree, gnarled to antiquity, crevassed beyond repair; her eyes were convex slate; her mouth, the slim aperture to an abyss. She was living dust.
Slowly, with bent back, the Woman hobbled across the room, her toes crackling like the last remnants of popcorn over a wintry fire. She limped through the basement door, down the darkened steps. She thought nothing, and made no sound.
There was void.
And beyond lay the furnace, a glowing ember in the non-light, bound by palls of detritus and the corpses of spiders. It was from this ironclad mass that the pitiful noise emanated, though growing fainter with each step that she took.
She paused, passive.