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Silks and SnakesShe moved through the Bombay marketplace with some sort of ancient secret hiding behind her lips. Her eyes darted like the arrows of Apollo about the crowded space. She was jostled and bumped, pushed aside and shoved forward. Her nose was thrust towards exotic spices that tingled with special purpose within her flesh.
She eyed silken fabrics and plucked at them with longing fingers. Her feet stepped over unsavory piles of dirt and dung and her body turned like a snake to move between the tightly packed people. Merchants saw her eager eye and prodded her with their wares, were then disappointed when she sprinted away.
All around her was the hustling and bustling and cheerful sounds of the bazaar, and it pressed against her skin like milk in a goatskin till it was granted entrance. She was overwhelmed with it. And then through it all, she heard the low growl that signaled his presence. Between turbans and out of place Westerners hats she saw his face.
He was a man oft
Blackest NightmareShe could feel it. A quiet but malicious presence at the foot of her bed. Its dark essence was the strongest there. It was coming closer, black and ugly with rotten breath that rolled like magma over her prone form.
She knew it was hesitant, but determined to achieve its goal. She felt the trudge of its heavy feet on the cold wooden floor. She struggled to open her eyes, finding them weighted, as if large bags of fine sand hung from them. The sand dripped onto her body, progressively and steadily slowing her movements. Her uncomfortable twists and turns.
Her hand was heavy as she lifted it, brushing though the watery air to feel nothing but the monsters heavy stare. The sheets of her bed were sticky with what felt like blood, though she knew it was nothing but the sweat dripping down her limbs in droves. Its presence was hot and irrefutable and she knew its eyes were the same, gasped when they appeared beneath her closed eyelids.
They were a bright, sticky yellow with wide black
The Longest MomentsCool and smooth, the hard wooden barrel beneath her fingers provided her only support. The grasping waves of the fierce ocean were tearing at her, but the barrel was a safe, fragile haven. Screams were ripped from her throat in a desperate and entirely futile attempt to save herself. They were unnatural, painful, and blood curdling.
As she bobbed from side to side, fingernails griped the wood so that splinters dug painfully into her hands, and something brushed her bare foot. It was smooth and soft, in the way that silk was after being soaked in rose water. She choked helplessly on another scream when the salty water violated her throat. It brushed her leg again, this time sharp ridges countering the silkiness with painful jabs. Her own blood was beginning to well up in the water, surrounding her, turning the world a terrifying red.
The tempest above her was in no condition to let out. The lashing winds, the furious waves, claiming their debt from mankind. She just hopes that she will
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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