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Come, then, Melpomene, why not admit me?

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656.70 Silver Crowns


PostPosted: Mon Mar 05, 2018 6:24 pm    Post subject: Come, then, Melpomene, why not admit me? Reply with quote

Neil: Heavenly Indulgences
Wed, May 27, 1998 13:58

Neil: The Musician

You'll never see - the courage I know
It's colours; richness won't appear within your view
I'll never glow - the way that you glow
Your presence dominates the judgements made on you.

Neil. No Family Name.
Neil, a voice like Jim Morrison had a Son with Maynard James Keenan. Impossible.
Neil, tall, 6'3" exactly.
Neil, thin, basketball build, perpetually the cat-like predator. Frozen graces.
Neil, effeminate but that touch of masculinity that wouldn't allow him to be beautiful.
Neil, just short of Carivaggio's angels.
Neil, a singer, a vampire, a monster dressed in leather.
Neil, Angel's Owner.

Neil sat in one of the plush leather couches that furnished the back-stage rooms of the Sacrifice Club. He was sunk down in it, utterly at ease, his arms spread like a crucifixion over the back of the couch, his legs were long and stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles. And like a g-d-head torn down, nuzzled against him under each of his arms was a woman. There legs were crossed and grazing his own, positioned just right so they had to suffer the close tables on their sides of the couch, but they were closer to the white lines on each, to the glass things that could spark flames and night mares if you touched them to your lips. They needed them, not Neil, he'd get the dreams inadvertently, and later.

Red dresses that fit like a glove. Painted faces to hide things they didn't even know they had had. Past tense because one was dead, the other soon would be. Neil had been their goal since they'd first heard his industrial scream they call music during these lost years. He'd been the object of far too much of their money and plight ever since they heard his groans and whispers he pleaded through a microphone to anything with ears and the stomach to listen. It didn't matter though, for them he'd been singing to them alone. And tonight they had Neil between them, sisters in life, sisters in death. Neil lowered his death-kiss to the last one's throat. In her delirium she moaned softly and gave him the inspiration he'd given them. Fair is fair. An eye for an eye. A life for eternal.

"Neil..." a tentative male voice.

His hand waved the new-comer away, his face was still buried in the blond hair, still draining the elixir from her pale throat. After a moment he raised his green eyes to the musician, the one who played the Synths, a friend, a lackey. "Damnit, I'd like time to enjoy these please..?"

"I know Neil, but the one you wanted initially is still in the Club, I thought..."

Neil canted his head and waved over a large man who had found himself in the center of his own harem of harlots. He neared with a jackal grin while Neil addressed the other still. "Well then, my boy, bring her in. Send her a drink, tell her it's from me."

The tall, fair haired man that had been beckoned leaned over the back of the couch, eyeing the smaller musician before flashing his smile even more feral beneath his hawkish eyes. He offered his hyena laugh and Neil turned to look up at him. "Demitri, get rid of these, it seems like there shall be one more this evening." Neil ran his thin fingers through his unruly mane of rich brown hair, a tumble of four inch half-curls that made him look like a cross between Jim Morrison and an Achtung era Bono Vox. "Actually, Domonic, I'll go out and get her myself." He was grinning at the musician before he stood and ran his hands over his tight black shirt and midnight leathers. "I need to make an appearance anyways, after all, I Do own the place." Demitri rounded the couch and threw a girl over each shoulder, oh the indignity of crimson dresses and the ultra-blond. He leered like he enjoyed his job.

"That you do Neil, that you do." A hyena laugh and he was gone, out the back door. Neil was smirking as he left the back stage rooms. Domonic called after him faintly.

"By the way.......I thought we were really good tonight. The base needs a little work before we record but I thought we were really tight."

"We're always really good, Dom. -- but we're not as tight as I'm hoping that little blonde’s going to be."

Domonic shook his head, but Neil was already gone.


But as the scenery grows, I see in different lights
The shades and shadows undulate in my perception
My feelings swell and stretch; I see from greater heights
I understand what I am still too proud to mention -- to you

"Nickers, get the lady another of whatever she's drinking." Neil grinned as he slid like a serpent into the chair beside Angel at the bar. He addressed her before he had even finished appraising her with his eyes. "So you liked the show tonight?"

Angel pivoted in her seat, turning to him. His eyes told her stories with the perceptions she had that he would never understand. She spoke softly, "Yes, the music was better than usual, and I've always liked your voice." Perhaps she was teaching him a lesson by telling him what he wanted to hear.

"Oh really...? I don't think I've seen you before, and damn, I would have remembered you." It was part of his act. Neil ran this place, he ran this side of town. He was a business man, but the singing altered him every time. The blood enthralled him every time. And the drugs...well, they'd make him a Ladies' Man. Funny though, he wasn't too far gone to forget the haunting way she'd reacted to his music. That hypnotizing dance, her stare, she'd stared at him, stared at him while her eyes influenced his guitar chords. Stared like she'd been the one who'd drawn out the passion in his song. He shook his head to draw him out of reverie.

"Yes, I've been here before." Soft and simple, she nodded to 'Nick' a polite thank you as he placed the drink -her Long Island- in front of her.

The night whet on in slow conversation. Lures and games really, indulgences and finally an invitation.


You'll say you understand, but you don't understand
You'll say you'd never give up seeing eye to eye
But never is a promise, and you can't afford to lie.

She listened to everything he said. Smiled to any joke he made. He let her go. He let her go and he went home that night and wrote, and wrote. He finished his third album in two months of writing and musical glitches. He'd locked himself in his bed-room and would play on nights there wasn't live music at the Sacrifice Club. He didn't see Angel the entire time. It didn't matter, there'd been no connection and he had no time. No time. Lyrics and guitar rifts were his language for two months.

You'll never touch -- these things that I hold
The skin of my emotions lies beneath my own
You'll never feel the heat of this soul
My fever burns me deeper than I've ever shown -- to you

You'll say, Don't fear your dreams, it's easier than it seems
You'll say you'd never let me fall from hopes so high
But never is a promise and you can't afford to lie.

The next time they would meet, would be an accident. It's what you call Fate.

Neil: and Heaven was his Oxygen...
Wed, May 27, 1998 14:42

Neil: The Hunger Artist

Darling, give me your absence tonight
Take the shade from the canvas and leave me the white
Let me sink in the silence that echoes inside
And don't bother leaving the light on
'Cuz I suddenly feel like a different person
From the roots of my soul come a gentle coercion
And I ran my hand o'er a strange inversion
A vacancy that just did not belong
The child is gone

Honey help me out of this mess
I'm a stranger to myself
But don't reach for me, I'm too far away
I don't wanna talk 'cuz there's nothing left to say
So my
Darling, give me your absence tonight
Take all of your sympathy and leave it outside
'Cuz there's no kind of loving that can make this all right
I'm trying to find a place I belong
And I suddenly feel like a different person
From the roots of my soul come a gentle coercion
And I ran my hand o'er a strange inversion
As the darkness turns into the dawn
The child is gone
The child is gone.

---"The child is gone" by Fiona Apple.

"No, I don't give a damn about who's got turf where. They know who I am, and they know what'll happen if they say No. Just watch them try and resist me." Neil jabbed his piano-player's finger at the brochures on the table. "I want it played here. That's our Opening act. They give you any lip, and you remind them what blood runs through your veins. And who the hell gave it to you." Neil could have butchered Domonic with his stare.

Domonic lifted his hands, utter compliance, his palms showed like he surrendered. "Alright Neil, I gotcha." He picked up the papers and headed out of the room, a nod to Demitri as he entered. The blond man noted Neil taking out a cigarette and wound his way to him, his lighter already in hand.

"What was that all about?"

"Domonic obviously doesn't realize what it means working here." Neil breathed in as he lit the cigarette off Demitri's flame.

"He's a good kid, he'll learn."

"If he didn't have the Synths down like a master I'd have ditched him a while back. But you're right, he will, and he is. That's why he's still around. You were the same way, so don't you forget that."

Demitri shrugged and pocketed his lighter. "Your cars out back. There's no press around now, get outa here while you can. You need time alone." Dem arched one of his far too angled brows. "You've been on edge since that night you started writing, you doing alright? You're not taking too much of Dom's..."

Neil raised his brows, crossing his arms merely waiting for Dem to finish.

"...enjoy the night alone, Neil." He turned and left out the front, Neil headed out the back.


She moved like liquid. He'd never seen anything like it and he remembered it. Through the haze of drugs and other intoxications that night they met he still remembered it. G-d, he'd let her go. An anomaly alone. He usually took the unique ones. He liked knowing he was the last thing they tasted, the last thing that tasted them. He enjoyed knowing that he was the last thing on something so beautiful's mind. He enjoyed hunting the artistic, he enjoyed hunting ones that weren't a dime a dozen. He preferred blondes, but that wasn't his specialty, that was merely lust. Don't think bad of Neil, he wasn't just a pretty boy, you simply haven't seen his intellect yet. He's brilliant and beautiful. Demanding and dangerous. Give him time.

He stood from his seat at a table. Alone was safer, and he was. He wore dark shades in the club simply to obscure his pale features. To dull his un-earthly gifts. To mute his chiseled face and familiar lures.

She moved with her eyes closed.. Her head was tipped back exposing all the quaint seductions of those planes of her pale throat. An arm-length was given to her, and her alone on either side. He couldn't have missed this tear in the seething mass of beautiful bodies that wound in contortions to the music. The mass was seductively violent and for some reason it parted for her. It was unconscious, but he'd tasted the center of this figure- shunned. He stepped into that ring of violation. The music seemed to groan louder- the air seemed to melt, thick with it's own heat. He gripped her arm, hard, like a reflex. Her emerald gaze shot at him, wondering who had dared. There was no veil from her silver hair- the gaze was homogeneous- potent, toxic. In the cloud of radio-activity he faltered as he looked at her, his lips parted but Neil was far too himself to cast innuendo's and arrogance. Neil had melted down to his baser elements and he groaned at her, low pitched, soft but loud enough for her to hear him.

"You're ....beautiful."

Lips swallowed the words from his mouth. Swallowed the parts of himself that he'd invoked to say them. She kissed him brokenly, silver lips coveting him. Tearing like the razors they lifted their colour from. Her tongue slipped into his mouth as she wrapped arms around his neck.

The crowd surged - parting to let them stumble out of the club.

Neil: Heaven's extension...Heaven's mistake.
Wed, May 27, 1998 15:01

Neil: The Owner

I got my feet on the ground, and I don't go to sleep to dream
You got your head in the clouds and you're not at all what you seem
This mind, this body, and this voice cannot be stifled by your deviant ways
So don't forget what I told you, don't come around, I got my own hell to raise.
---"Sleep to dream" by Fiona Apple

He felt himself in his music. Something he'd never felt before. He felt the words strike true and he felt the aching of it all as he had learned the art of reaching shadow fingers through the world's speakers to make anyone who'd hear him weep or fall in love with his pain. You don't love me, you love what I know. You love the you in me.

Decades of talent, decades of dedication. He'd become eternal for this. To touch this. To make them all hunger for what he knew was bitter truth. Uncensored, unveiled. He'd become a figure-head to teach it, he'd become a leader on the side. He had had passion, he had had the desire, he'd touched everything he could, and they recognized him then. But now, oh it was so different. It was haunting beauty (like the way she could sense it). It was the fear that perfection held. It was the end that perfection promised. No, no, it was beginning. It would stay. He could make it. Perfection could not be the end, it was never supposed to be obtained.

Neil's fingers whisked through silver strands. He wasn't sleeping, he didn't need to, but he enjoyed watching her. He needed to be close to her. Her head rested atop his chest. What could she hear? He breathed, his heart beat, but could she hear how artificial he was? Could she hear the blood that must sound different as it tore past the wound he'd received in his awareness. The rift that let it seep out- the unfiltered inspiration.

What are you? How can you do this to me?

She shifted against him, her hand rising to lay open palmed upon his stomach.

You can't ever stop........

Last edited by Melpomene on Mon Mar 05, 2018 6:26 pm; edited 1 time in total
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PostPosted: Mon Mar 05, 2018 6:25 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Demitri: ..and opposites find razor-halos like magnets...
Wed, May 27, 1998 15:29

Demitri: The Feral Lackey

Won't do no good to hold no seance
What's gone is gone and you can't bring it back around
Won't do no good to hold no searchlight
You can't illuminate what time has anchored down

Oh, Honey (I've gone a-)
Oh, Honey (I've gone a-)
Oh, Honey (I've gone away)

----"Carrion" by Fiona Apple

Demitri Romanov.
Demitri, a laugh like a hyena, a gaze like a hawk. Predator and muscle.
Demitri, tall, near 7'
Demitri, thick and strong, brute and Russian. Blond and fair behind all that terror.
Demitri, a man who would make a woman submit, a man who could never be happy.
Demitri, something that wont dissipate like a fog, but must be pinched out like a flame.
Demitri, a lackey, a vampire, an animal that learned the secret of fire beside man.
Demitri, Neil's right hand.

Neil had asked about her when he woke up. He said he'd dreamt about the past. He said he'd dreamt he'd been holding her. He'd said he needed his fix.

Demitri had told him. Told him of the things that had taken Neil's angel away. He'd told him that he didn't need her anymore, her affects were permanent, they could all be satisfied.

That girl was worse than the beast.

Demitri flew down the vacant streets in the small hours of the night. He drove his jet black car like a hurricane. It was his childe, part of his pride. He didn't play in the band but his pride was his close contact with Neil, and his car. He loved extravagance and he gulped it down in messy convulsions of his head as he tore into indulgence with a fever.

He'd seen Neil become attached. He'd seen it cloud him over. He'd witnessed the nights Neil would be too worked up to do business and all he wanted to do was write, or find her. That girl was too far implanted by the time he'd made up his mind that they all would have been better off without her.

He snarled as he spun the wheel, flinging the car across the street, fish-tailing like an aquatic. It was worse that he couldn't get enough of her himself. It was worse that she made him think things. It was dangerous. It was fatal to invoke the beast of something that was already half carnal. He wanted to take things from her…
Purity. Sanctity. Penance. Innocence. ...Freedom.

She took everything so hypnotic. The girl asked to be over-come. His fists made knuckles white above the wheel. Erotica in domination. G-d, what was she?

His black car prowled the streets.
His maniac hyena laughter rung through the vacant streets.

He'd been right. He should have stopped it.
She liked instincts.
He couldn't understand hers.
But he lived by his.
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PostPosted: Mon Mar 05, 2018 6:28 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Evan: Ultimately good natured brute with Seraphin Ego
Mon, Jun 15, 1998 15:46 EDT

Evan: Flesh and Rhythm

Lost in a world of doubt and insecurity
Nothing that you hold sacred nothing you believe.
You're life is a contradiction,
while you thrive on manipulation.
I fight to just hold on to what I believe

--"The Thing I hate" by Stabbing Westward

Evan Fletcher.
Evan, the percussionist for Neil's band. One of the Boys.
Evan, tall, thin, rugged. Shaved head, goatee.
Evan, a lion's pride, a shark's bite and a serpent's graces.
Evan, a lady's man. G-d's gift to us All.
Evan, a man who knows where priorities are and sometimes they fall with the ladies.
Evan, a drummer. a mortal. a man.
Evan, a Regular.

Evan sat at the bar, toying with the napkin underneath his glass. Bloody Mary. How...ironic. His head was tilted like the napkin held something he wanted to entice it to reveal. Nick behind the bar was shaking his head as he mopped up the left over condensation rings from the couple who'd just left to go finish whatever they'd been doing. Nick could never get used to those two blond Fetish Dolls that enjoyed the Club.

"Man, Fox and Lamia freak me out sometimes." Spoke Nick, under his breath but to Evan as well.

Evan raised his gaze and ran his busy hand over his closely shaved head- dark stubble.

"FoxGlove is alright, Lamia is a pisser though." Evan grinned and became himself. Nick smiled like he'd conquered Evan's mood all by himself and kept on wiping down the bar. "I got a question for you, Nickers." And without further ado, or invitation. "Should I have issues with being the only warm blooded thing in Neil's group? I mean, sure, I get the chicks and actually keep them alive but...still."

"Evan, Neil loves you and your cocky attitude. And you Know it comes from being the only Breather outa the bunch." Nick smirked and let the masquerade slip away under a glimpse of fang. "I mean, c'mon, that's what gave you the balls to pin down that little china shadow, blind...chick...thing." He trailed off, trying to rope in his first impressions of the girl Evan was presently preening himself over. He muttered softly, "I'll never get used to the weirdo's in this town. Though" he got a little louder. "She was Quite a dish..."

Evan flashed his gaudy smirk. Those grins that just smell of "Yeah, you're even enjoying this grin, because it's Perfect". He rolled his shoulder and laughed his deep, masculine laugh- an attraction even among his lithe form. "You can say that again. Though, it just makes things more exotic, if you know what I mean." He gave a low, smirking coo that caused Nick to even laugh at his fiendishness. "I mean....look at Angel. She's got that ....."

"Hey hey.... don't you go..."

"Nah, Nick. It's all good. Angel and I are just friends. We understand each other. Her sprite-ness just brings on this little protective quality whether she knows it or not" He reached a hand up to smooth his goatee between forefinger and thumb, an open handed stroke. "That's just me though." Under his breath now, "and she needs it"

"Yeah, yeah. Hey, you know, I think Angel knows your little Shadow Girl. Saw 'em talking once." Nick paused and tossed the slightly wet wag into the sink behind the bar.

"Oh Reeeaallly..." He downed his drink. Evan was grinning as he stood up. "Well it seems to be that little dishes lucky day. I'll have Angel Properly, " he half-sneered. "" Evan took a few steps away from the bar, adjusting what he could in the mirror behind it. The Club was empty, it was too early.

"You go get 'em Tiger. And give Angel my.... Hello."

"You got it, Nickers." Evan gave Nick a tilt of his head, a half wink and a grin. All above a pointed finger, hand like a gun. One of, Those. Only a few people can get away with this gesture. Evan was one of them.

Nick: The Bartender with Wings...
Mon, Jun 15, 1998 16:34

Nick: The Club's Private Lion

I know I should have told you,
but I was so afraid you'd leave.
And now there's nothing left to say.
well nothing you'd believe.
I never meant to hurt you with
the things I couldn't say.
I promise you tomorrow while
denying you today.

--"Torn ap art" by Stabbing Westward

Nicholas Cooper
Nick, a deep voice and a deep set jaw. Sturdy, something to rely on. A Rock.
Nick, tall. Burly, brute strength checked by a good heart.
Nick, a bear or lion. Graceful as nature has made him so. Big hands that can hold you up.
Nick, shoulders and ice blue eyes. Dark hair that had a touch of flames in it.
Nick, Scottish. Accent slowly disappearing with age. Never forget.
Nick, The Bartender, a vampire, a conscience.
Nick, Neil and the Boy's almost fatherly advisor.

A bartender knows Everything. And more often then not, Everyone. A removed observer who can offer you advice on love, lust, drugs, men and fashion. He remembers your drinks if you're worth remembering. He's a shadow back-drop. A vague man with fountains of knowledge. He seems like he knows fate, and is bound by some unnatural law to just guide you along. He has secrets, he Must.

Complacent and good natured. Cunning and humorous under all situations. He's got an affinity to boyish humor and the occasional dirty joke, but like a father, he'd keep bad influences from daughter and wife and yet these trespasses of amusement are almost always enjoyed by the employer. This, this was Nick.

Unconsciously he was holding a pendant around his throat, a gesture. A silver figure of someone he once knew. Nick was a bachelor, always will be, though it was never by choice. Whenever he actually looked at the little figurine of a woman he remembered fire. Remembered ashes, remembered his daughter. And ultimately, he remembered that he had the present. Each little piece of advice was a part of his penance...... If I can make their life
better than mine...then....

His ice cold eyes that seemed like they should melt under the influence of his big heart watched Evan leave. "What a boy..." softly uttered, neither discontent nor approval, just a comment.

"Who, Evan?"

Nick turned to the other side of the room, he'd been lost in thought, hadn't heard the approach. "Oh, why hello, Domonic." Thick fingers curled around Evan's emptied glass as he brought it to the sink to rinse and wash. "And yes, Evan. He pretends he's not sentimental in there. He's got an ego that could poison his mother, but he's a good kid."

"He's probably a better Drummer, but I'll take your word for it." Domonic grinned as he slid up to the bar. Nick started to dry his glass. Two handed now, he'd dropped his memory under his shirt. "You seen Angel?"

Nick paused, arched one of his big brows and turned to place the glass on the shelf before the mirror, there was a discourse of eyes in the reflection there. Nick spoke to Domonic through it. "Evan just went to find her, but I haven't seen her in a good week and a half."

Domonic frowned. He was shaking his head softly. "Neil's going to flip. Just going to Flip. It's good that she gets away but she's pushing it." He began to drum his fingers on the bar-top. Nick turned around to look at him. He crossed the small space behind the bar and placed his own large palms on the bartop.

"Neil's already unamused. And Demitri, ...Demitri is Pissed."

"You've seen him then, haven't you Nick?" Domonic was looking at him, curious. His gaze couldn't belay his intelligence and his rather good natured inquisitiveness.

"Dom, I'm the Bar-tender, I see Everything." Dom muttered an epithet under his breath, shaking his head he turned from the bar, took a few steps away, he began to pace. Nick couldn't help but offer a simple smile. He liked Domonic, a lot, but his tendency to pace was amusing.

"I didn't think it was true. I thought that Neil was 'Right', not just in his weird-ass denial. Do you know who he is?"

"Nah, but I think Stephen saw them last night, at least that's what the Fetish-Sisters said in between ....whatever you'd like to call what they were doing." He mock shuddered and shook his head. "Took him to the ball-room last night, she did. Lucky Dem and Neil never got into hanging out there."

"Hmm, do you know where Stephen is right now?"

"Heh, Probably at that little coffee shop he likes to frequent with Adrienne and Gabriel"

"Oh, Geeeeez. I'll pass."

Nick gave his low, jovial laugh. Pure amusement and not an undertone in sight. He leaned back away from the bar and continued shaking his head. "Yeah, those twins creep me out."

"Screw 'creeping me out', they Hit on me." Domonic turned to go back the way he came. Back stage.

"Man, sorry about that, Domonic." He didn't have another thing to say on That topic. "Good luck with the Synths and the new sound system. If you need a strong back, let me know, I'm going to clean up and then go home before my shift starts. I don't know a thing about that fancy electronic stuff though."

"You got it, Nick."

Domonic: Iced Angel; Bittersweet
Mon, Jun 15, 1998 17:33

Domonic: Most likely, Martyr

I know the tears you're crying in your bed at night alone
I've dried those tears a thousand times
But those shallow empty songs about suicide are patronizing
You've got to learn to face your fears
Or do you think I'll be less lonely when I'm dead
It can't silence all the voices in my head
I close my eyes but I can't make it go away...
Do you think I'll be less lonely when I'm dead
When I'm dead
I know the songs you're singing, saying nothing loud and clear
I've heard that song a thousand times
But your noble empty lies about suicide are patronizing
You can never understand what I feel
--"When I'm dead" by Stabbing Westward

Domonic Michael Octavian
Domonic, a Saint. Smart, too smart. A touch of perfection. Where are Your wings?
Domonic, tall, thin. Regal, angular.
Domonic, the firm fey-ish build. Poison when need be.
Domonic, looks to kill for, ice blue eyes and cheek bone length black waves. Leather wit.
Domonic, perceptive gaze. A perfect smirk. A dangerous laugh.
Domonic, the synth player, a vampire. You're lucky he uses his talents like he Should.
Domonic, a musician with an intelligence you should be afraid of.

Domonic turned the corner to make his way to the back of the stage. He hadn't stopped shaking his head, the motion was welcomed. He cursed under his breath.

"The girl is going to be the death of us all." He kicked an empty packing crate, brushing away his ebon waves of hair from his ice gaze. "Everything that Neil built is going to be ashes at his feet if he keeps this up." He sneered as he picked up one of his beloved keyboards. "And Demitri can shove all his pumped up extravagance." He placed it upon it's metal cradle amid the other two keyboards he treasured. "Punks."

Domonic played the messenger boy because he was quick. He didn't like Neil's turf plans because Neil was getting sloppy. He wasn't focused when he gave his orders, but Domonic respected Neil because he was a quick wit, and wasn't afraid of his own sarcasm and intelligence. Neil was also the head man, you respect that breed easier when you work for him. Besides, his music was Incredible.

It had been a long time since Domonic had heard lyrics that could be as provoking as his keyboards. It had been a long time since he'd actually seen someone be inspired and inspire because of it. Domonic was good with knives, he was a perilous immortal, but his passion was music. He played his instruments like poetry.

She helped him though, and if there was anyone who could place a finger upon a title, or something to name her. It would be him. Domonic would be the one to find Angel when she was broken. No-one ever knew. She could recite tales to him, tell him things, whisper things. Weave stories more beautiful than the ones he'd sometimes read her. Angel was smarter than any of them knew, and he was sure she'd hadn't ever showed him the depthless amount of what she understood. He envied it really, but he wouldn't ever try to take it. Like Neil did. He wouldn't condemn her for the ebbing control she had over them all, like Demitri did. There was something hypnotically sweet about the things she could subconsciously steal from him. Nick didn't know about it. Nick was her father figure, Domonic, well, Domonic was her friend.

Who was the one who'd finally won her over? (Who could do what he couldn't?) It was a curiosity. He'd help her get away if she wanted to. He'd miss her voluminous knowledge of the mythologies he loved. He'd miss her grasp of the concepts of human nature. Her tiny form could form understandings so perfectly upon her silver lips. He'd never kissed them. She'd never become that weakness for him. Domonic was a special case. He'd been street sharpened and would always remain the impenetrable poet. The one who'd been caught, but didn't know it, really.

He'd been standing still. Just thinking, his fingers stroking the key's of his personal voice. The instrument that could manifest what he Did understand.

Domonic shook his head.

"This is Not amusing.."
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PostPosted: Mon Mar 05, 2018 6:30 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Lamia and Foxglove: The Spider Sisters
Mon, Jun 15, 1998 18:12

Lamia and Foxglove: The Fetish Sisters

So how can I hold on
with nothing to hold on to...
Why should I hold on
when there's nothing to hold on to

I thought you were my friend. that you
were someone I could turn to
But now I realize you were a
friend when you needed something
--"How Can I hold On (Dog Attack)" by Stabbing Westward.

Lamia. No Family Name.
Lamia, Twisted Sister. Leather and lace. Voice like lost passions.
Lamia, 5'7". Curves to kill for, though they're usually wrapped around Foxglove.
Lamia, a backdrop woman. A touch of the elite's connoisseurs.
Lamia, creature of the night that will suck you dry. Black rooted blond hair. Red-rose lips.
Lamia, a vulture with first impressions.
Lamia, a Regular, a vampire. A broken being.
Lamia, Foxglove’s.

Foxglove. No Family Name.
Foxglove, Twisted Sister. Leather and lace. Violet eyes to offset Lamia's blue.
Foxglove, 5'7". Curves to kill for, though they're usually wrapped around Lamia.
Foxglove, a backdrop woman. Naive arachnid of the elite.
Foxglove, creature of the night that waste you away. Blond-white hair. Red-rose lips.
Foxglove, timid when caught without her savior.
Foxglove, a Regular, a vampire. A broken being.
Foxglove, Lamia's.

Purred and chiding laughter. A vision of white netting and red dresses. Blond hair spilling from underneath the white toole, somewhere there were blue and violet eyes but the faces were so obscure. A plastic spider was hooked in each of the veils and Evan nearly started when he caught a glimpse of the ladies that had never left the premises after their drinks at the bar.

"Man, you guys are Wacked." Evan was shaking his head as he skirted them, crossing to the other side of the inlet that led to the Club's door.

"Angel was with him you know." The blue eyed Sister half unwound from her entanglement with the other. "Fox and I saw them. Neil isn't happy."

"Who him?"

"Ohhhh..." it was too like a hiss, Evan backed up a step, unconscious. "You don't know do you." breathy words before a seductive coo of sorts. Vile thing, Lamia deserved her name. "Her knew Thrall, that girl is blood-poison, we tell you. She mystifies us." Lamia lowered her face to Foxglove's neck, silenced, waiting for Evan's reply.

"Man, you two are Always all over each other...but how the hell do you even get Through all that crazy crap you wear.."

Foxglove winced and turned her violet eyes to him. A blink of blond lashes.

Lamia bared her fangs at him and rolled a red-laced shoulder. "It's more efficient than trying to impress your Shadow Princess, don't you think?"

"Any-How..." Evan glared at them. Brown eyes unamused, not impressed by their knowledge either. The two of them had "Violation!" written all over them as far as he was concerned. If one of them Ever touched him, he'd tear off their clawed hand.

Lamia laughed softly. An almost raspy laugh, it was all theatrical, she was really quite beautiful but she was just...Insane. (As far as Evan was concerned.)

Evan snarled and wondered if she'd even bleed.

"Angel's not home right now, Evan. Look for her when she wakes up."

"What? If you know something..." Lamia straightened, Foxglove just watched, another blink. She was even more creepy than Lamia, Fox never spoke. Ever.

They stood there, stock still, just looking at him before they turned around, a 180 on their stilettos. "We don't know a Thing..."

Evan watched, near speechless as the Fetish-Sisters stalked off and slid around the corner. He blinked, ran a hand over his shaved head. "Man, I will Never, Ever get used to those wackos." He turned and made his way down the other direction on the sidewalk. He'll find Angel later, he was in the mood for an Inn, and maybe even his Shadow Doll.

Stephen: An Angel who Knows he is...
Mon, Jun 15, 1998 19:30 EDT

Stephen: British Barbie

Six o'clock in the morning
my head is ready to explode
I can't believe I made it home alive
I don't remember where I went
or what I was drinking
but I know its made me sick
and I'm not denying
that I get this way...
---"Sometimes it hurts" by Stabbing Westward

Stephen Constantine
Stephen, a blond haired blue eyed boy-doll.
Stephen, 6 foot. Muscular but effeminate. Poetry.
Stephen, a silk and leather European. Old English.
Stephen, blond waves to his jaw line, silk and gold. Vain and Proud. But somehow Sweet.
Stephen, lost in lost worlds. Tastes for the exotic, and you.
Stephen, a singer of old world songs, a vampire, a sensuous monster.
Stephen, leader of the feminine triumvirate of fashion and violins.

Musical laughter.

"Oh my darling, please, do that again.
No, no, right here...
Oooooh... Yeah..."

A feminine giggle and Stephen Constantine turns the corner onto the block of his favorite haunt (The Sacrifice Club being his second). A silk draped arm wrapped around a slip of a girl who's coquettishly buried her lips in his blond hair around his neck. No, you'd have liked to think the giggle was from Stephen, but it was from the toy he'd found. Stephen was quite sure about his tastes, he walked no fences. Though.... then there was the

None the less he laughed softly and reluctantly idled the girl off his arm. "My dear, my dear. I'm quite sorry, but I have a ...meeting of sorts and I'll Have to finish this later." The girl smiled, a slightly intoxicated smile as she nodded, her disheveled hair falling over her cheeks. "I'll meet you at my room, yes?" He took one of her hands between both his own, discreetly there was a key between them that was placed in her palm. She nodded and
teetered off.

He grinned, British charms as he turned and watched her sway around the corner. It would be unfair to not make a point to note that he wasn't looking at the back of her Head as he watched her depart.

He swooped around the corner of his Coffee Shop and held the door frame as he leaned away from it. A leg lifting a foot from the ground as the arm anchoring him outstretched in his twirl and the other hand fell on his heart and he gave a long, dramatic sigh. "G-d, I simply Adore..." the word was purred. "Virgin Blood." His angel-worthy features permitted his characteristic Fiend's Smile and he slid into the one empty chair of the table he faced.
"She'll be Wonderful after my scones."

"Darla was a delight.."
"Yes, we adored her."

Stephen was just positively grinning at the two he sat across from. Perfect male specimens. Three angels sat at the table, but two had the same face. Surely the Creator had run out of perfection among the making of the two sets of eyes. Four amber, two blue. The Twins were a double copy of something far too delicious. Stephen was always overwhelmed by them. "Well, she'll be a final dream this evening. You're more than welcome to come."

"Perhaps we shall..."
"...yes, the offer is quite tempting."

Stephen propped his feet up on one of the Twin's chairs. The rung beneath it fell into the arch of his riding boots. He crossed his silk draped arms and grinned like a jackal as he scanned the coffee shop with his perfect blues. "Ooooh, look at That one, she looks...Pocket-able." He smirked and nodded his forever-smooth chin to the vision at the counter. "And look at that boys, she's a Red Head too."

The Twins turned in a mirror image of each other to look at the one he indicated. They both muttered a quiet "Hmmmm."

"She's red headed alright..."
"But she's too..."

"Ahh, but my dears, it seems we've lost our little Gothic Doll to that, she brought with her last evening." Stephen was looking at the Twins again, and this time they turned and watched him, canting their heads, again, mirror images.

"Was Delectable.."
"Completely Edible."
"Dark hair, dark eyes."
"Even dyed...Maroon."
They purred.

"Hey hey, I don't have dark hair nor dark eyes, and *I'm*...Delectable'." Stephen sat up and peered at the twins. A light brow raised though a grin curled his lips. The twins grinned at him.

"You are.."
In Unison, "Stephen."

Stephen was pleased. (He was easy to please with Compliments, though not with criticism, at All.) His feet had found the floor and he was shaking his head at the waitress who had come to ask him if he wanted his regular. He looked between the two cups of coffee the Twins had had and he dropped a twenty on the table with a smirk to the waitress. He licked his lips, all so subtly and a touch of preternatural quickness. He was standing soon after. "I'm not even going to have a cup of coffee, I rather have a cup of Darla."
The twins grinned, it turned their lips at the near exact same speed. It was thoroughly eerie. How did Stephen stand them?

"We'll take you up on your.."

The Twins rose. They all nodded to the other regulars they were familiar with at the coffee shop and slid out down the sidewalk the way Darla had gone. A flock of Caravaggio worthy man-boys.

Adrienne and Gabriel: Horrid Heaven times Two
Mon, Jun 15, 1998 20:08 EDT

Adrienne and Gabriel: The Twins

I'm drowning in nothing
nothing real
nothing left ... nothing
I'm losing myself
sinking deeper down

leaving this behind
nothing left but me
--"Drowning" by Stabbing Westward

Adrienne and Gabriel Hall.
Adrienne and Gabriel, Auburn curls to their jaw-lines. Amber eyes, wide and innocent. Deception.
Adrienne and Gabriel, young. gracefully awkward. 5'9"
Adrienne and Gabriel, thin, dancer's bodies, fingers for the violin, voices for the choir.
Adrienne and Gabriel, effeminate beautiful boys. Angel's admirers.
Adrienne and Gabriel, Angels who have need of finding their wings.
Adrienne and Gabriel, violinists, vampires. Twins. Lovers.
Adrienne and Gabriel, the body of the feminine triumvirate of fashion and violins.

They say that leather is vogue and that the appreciation of fine wine and music is In. They say that the Club scene is becoming the new past time for the wealthy. They say that times change and either you have it, or you do not.

Adrienne and Gabriel were Vogue.

Everyone knew them, or of them. Those that didn't have the right to wave hello at them in public, feigned the action for face's sake, or announced that they'd had a tift with the Twins and couldn't stand them.

They were part and parcel of Stephen's pack and they thoroughly enjoyed the fiendish things they were allowed to get away with because of this. Beautiful boys, and in this case, it wasn't only in the eye of the beholder. For they .."beheld' everyone. Adrienne and Gabriel were only an acquired taste to those who knew them well enough to know their..... habits. And if you knew that...well, you had the acquired taste.

Before they met Stephen at the coffee shop, like they always did mind you, they'd been polishing their violins. This was a religious act and they did it by candle light and while they listened to Mozart. Delicate musicians fingers stroked the strings of bows and the fine wood of their beloved tools of their trade. They sat in their red velvet lined apartment and let candle light dance along the silk ruffles of shirts and kid-leather of pants. The Twins were rich wine on the outside, devils on the interior. Funny how they were so wide eyed with wonder when they used to watch Angel when they'd invite her out with them.

"She's stirring things up with Neil's crew you know." Soft, faint Italian accents, though they weren't Italian.

"So they say."

"You saw her with ...Him, I wonder what happened....after we left." They placed the violins upon their knees. Always mirror images, they looked at each other as they sat in identical lounges across the center hall of their apartment.

"They're worse than Us."

They both smirked and laughed.

A soft whisper, in unison again. "I wonder what he tastes likes."

A grin was the discourse amid a sparkle in amber eyes. Four of them.

"I bet he's good." Sounding like a revelation from far too pale lips.

Something like a masculine tinted giggle followed.

"Heh heh....yeah."
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PostPosted: Mon Mar 05, 2018 6:33 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Christopher: Feather by Feather, he pieces it together....
Fri, Jul 31, 1998 13:12

Christopher: New Confusion- The Manager

--“DROWN” By Gravity Kills

Christopher Hall. Older brother of Adrienne and Gabriel.
Christopher, A voice to rival Neil’s. Poetic Pretty Boy.
Christopher, tall, pale, chin length chocolate hair streaked in blond and green.
Christopher. Sardonic. Ego driven but capable of much, much more.
Christopher, Gay Magnet. A touch of something new and normal for the Club.
Christopher, a young man with aspirations. Vision.
Christopher, a singer, a writer, a vampire, a touch of hope.
Christopher, the new manager of the Club.

He waited in the car. I must know myself before I understand you. Fully aware she’d not hint at where she was going. My eyes are letting you see. Rumors were enough to make it clear Angel had found a retreat. He’d known the members of the club for quite some time, however the dynamics of working there was another story all together. Each of Neil’s band members was a Prince to his own Estate. This situation gave it another look. Another feel. (Taste.) He could cater only so much. Neil respected Chris. But he was undoubtedly a rival. Another singer who sung the un-synthetic. “Of course Chris can have the stage tonight. What do you think I am?”

Chris’ passion was his lyrics, but his first ambition was the Club. Something to grasp with immortal fingers. Something to Nurture. /Club/Angel/ His hands raised and covered his features. A pulling downwards. Scratch the faceless. Tear what they will recognize. Anonymity. He paused, leaving her to wait for him before he slowly eased the clutch and fled the scene.

Domonic and Christopher were good friends. Familiar with your blood. Each of them could also deconstruct Angel. Christopher couldn’t understand how someone could be enlightened, and yet not have the need to give an equal gift to someone else. Oh, to understand. If only the gifts were so abundant. She knows you. Let them know. Please, tell them what I can not. (tear down these walls.) Maddening, simply maddening. He searched unlife for something so simple and so thoroughly obtained by a near-child. (Lie) Something wrong. Something so wrong that Dom and Chris never let the assumptions fall from lips. In such a short time, the unsaid had formed a bond. This was Chris’ niche.

I’ve been here before.

Chris strolled into the Club late. Night shadows hid worried features, dark chocolate hair was untamed. He strode, pantherine, into the Club. Simply a nod for Nick. He’d stopped to change and think, a tight black tank top and conforming pants of some synthetic material. (Ode to the Name sake.)

Takes a Second to say Goodbye… In the moment it took to nod there was a hulking form in his way. A grin lowered to him. He fell from above. Demitri licked his teeth as he rumbled a mocking hello. “You like her, huh, Christopher? I’m surprised, being raised with your ---“gay”--- brothers of yours.” Chris held Demitri in a neat stare. Finish. Dem touched Chris’ hair, brushing it away with his tapered fingers. Jointed arthropoda legs, scent and balance. Dem leaned in (for the kill). “You’ll show me where they stay, later.” Jackal laugh. Wingtip touch to his cheek and Demitri coiled away. Touch and I Slay.

Christopher seethed. Assault from all directions. He met eyes with Neil; just a figure in a corner. After a long silence, he turned and walked away.

“I don’t know what it is Chris. It just makes sense.”
“She’s something to indulge in Christopher, do you want a try?”
“Demitri?” A laugh. “He doesn’t even know she’s alive.”
“If I can’t, then no-one will.”
“I love her…”
“Kill him…
….. in front of her.”

** Gravity Kills in here
** U2
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PostPosted: Mon Mar 05, 2018 6:40 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Demitri: On the Path to Heaven, gun in hand
Sun, 13 June 1999 12:51 PM EDT









Demitri roared. He was all claws and muzzle. He was half-beast beneath the shell of human skin. He drew blood and he so could not help himself, he licked it from his fingertips.

"She's a Whore. Read her mind, she knows Everything. She's a slut.
She's Dirty."

Hisses and growls, it was half in and out of an old dialect. A pronunciation to ravage. A predisposition to defile. "I couldn't make her any more than she already was." The Russian was being overcome by shear will. He was laughing. He didn't think he could lose. (Oh Demitri, Demitri, can't you see this is your deathbed? Behind the Club of your beloved leader? Hush, sweet Demitri. Lick your wounds. Priest up to his neck in dirt. Holy mother.)

"Sorry? Son... I am her Savior." He bit the curve of Grant's shoulder when he came in close. Bit him like an animal, turning his head and wanting to roll like the alligator, to tear like a hyena. He thrashed, and for all it's vitality, it was almost perverse(pathetic), and keenly unintelligent choice. The rag of a woman was stepped on, smashing features, shattering bone. Violence in the alleyway, the last songs of the club were blaring their baseline through the half opened back door. Demitri was shoved and pinned against it, it slammed with another sound to add to the cacophony of final, vicious moments. It was almost was all for his Master. (I would have been your lover...)

The Triumvirate of Fashion and Violins: Discussions w/Angel(')s.
Mon, 21 June 1999 01:58 PM EDT

Her ankles were crossed as she lounged on the couch in the Twin's ballroom. Their brownstone was pretty. Guilded with rich carpets and intricate (but elegant) wall papers. She yawned (every part of me is tired.) Her pale fingers covered her lips. She sighed softly and the twins peeked up from their lounge upon the floor where they braided her hair in two perfectly symmetrical winding patterns. A circlet of woven hair, that they must certainly have to stud with flowers. -these words I don't just say--

"It's like they forgot me." Angel was studious/serious. She frowned. Her head was hanging off the side of the couch and thus it all looked quite foreign. She was dressed in a dress of cobalt blue velvet. A gift from the twins who purred and pulled at her braids like hissing kittens. One smelt her neck and another pawed his double's shoulder.

"They are in an uproar. Their sire is mad as a hatter." Stephen sat like a man next to her. One leg was crossed, his ankle upon his knee. The hand upon the arm clossest to her rested on her tiny stomach and pet the soft fabric there. (Strangle me) --never open myself this way-- His boots were highly oiled and his hair was waves of flax. "Demitri is gone."

Angel blinked, sulfur in her heart, but it spewed silk like a web from her throat. "He was a man who followed his desires. Demitri played himself well." She looked between the amber eyes of the twins and she couldn't help but frown as they smiled gaily.

"You find nothing wrong in him…
…even though he hurt you so."
Their voices alternated their question between them.
"Too sweet, Angel." In unison.

"You know…and I know you do, but hear me out." Stephen crooned, but it was a convincing timbre, he was going to teach her something of the street smarts he worried she didn't use. He knew they were in there, or she'd be a bore, but he wanted to …refresh her memory. (You are not my keeper. I will love you sweetly!) "You don't have to take half the s--- they dish out to you. Demitri was horrid. He wanted nothing more than to tear you in two, Angel. Be it with his teeth, his hands, his manhood…any sick appendage (and mall deformed at that)" Stephen the Straight snorted "he had." His petting fingers continued their play over every individual rib he could feel under his fingertips. So delicate. She was unreal, and she wasn't human. Oh, but she was "in" and the social points he gained for being her confidant as well as the Twins, well… it was how he got his "women". His treats, the blood to sip with his scones. His whores.

"Stephen, I know. Why do you think I spend my time with…"
"But you Don't lately, and this is exactly my point."

"There is uproar in the Club…" Adrienne.
…the Pack is whispering of new.." Gabriel.
"Leadership." They trilled together. They finished their braids and made a design worthy of a broach at the back of her head. She sat up, and how they loved to doll her up so. Her almond eyes and ageless aura made her seem the elven doll, the foreign countess.

"Nick keeps all these things from me! I ask and I ask him."
"He doesn't want you there, Angel." Stephen was always right, and he never lost his sensual tenor. The twins seemed to scatter and then surround her on the couch, pawing and fussing.

She looked hurt, pain changed her features, like a dark cloud over her snowy scape of skin and white lashes.

"Angel, I mean for your protection. Demitri would have killed you, and Neil…Lord knows what Neil would do. Lord knows what Neil Is anymore!"

"I will help him then. To heaven or to Hell!" The girl panted and the three pretty boys around her looked to each other for guidance. "He needs an end to his story. Don't you see! And he wants me to be it!" Her shoulders slumped. "Christopher says he says my name…he howls it in the middle of the night."

"Fever-like dreams..."
"…he is mad"
And softer, the twins said in unison…"Christopher, our brother."

"Christopher says that he is a wraith of a thing! A starving man, a mad vampire! He wont eat and he chases the sun!" She splayed out her hands and she looked to them all for help, for guidance. "He is one of you! I don't know what to do…"

"He is a leader of a Pack. He is the last word in the Lasombra of the Sacrifice Club. If he is mad, Nick or Domonic will know what to do. Even Evan has more wits about this sort of thing than Demetri did, and he's more mortal than Dom." Angel was shaking her head, and Stephen continued as he soothed her with his fingertips, touching the braids the Twins were finally proud of. "They will go to the Sisters….they will at least ask them. Let them do that before you go to Neil. I can't save you when you go there. We are independent of the Club. We are just some time riddled fools." Stephen sighed, there was only so much he could do. The saga was unfolding like a poisonous lotus blossom.

"Yes…but Stephen…"
"…we have Taste."
"And manners."

The Triumvirate of Fashion and Violins: Stephen's Metaphors
Wed, 23 June 1999 10:39 AM EDT

Stephen had leaned back upon the lounge where angel had turned upright. She slid to her feet and the Twins tilted their heads in symmetrical directions and watched her rather cattily as they pawed each other. They blinked their four amber eyes and their secret smile between each other, thin lipped and pallid, even made Stephen shiver as he wondered what they thought.

Angel passed, the thought riddled little angel. A cameo clipped from Venice, her cobalt dress smooth against her form, not ribbed, and the torso of the dress creating little angles above her hips, it's center, a point plunging down past her waist. She was sleek and soft, and tiny. Stephen frowned as he noticed her couldn't take advantage of the meeting contours, he couldn't look at her with anything but gentleness and concern.

"I think…" shattered her voice, "that there is something entirely new at the club. And that I need not be afraid. Neil lives up above it in his offices and convenient rooms, but without Demitri, he has no extension of himself to filter for me." She sounded very contemplative.

"You underestimate them. I believe that Christopher is merely using his wits, and he's lucky that A Game of You can take over for Neil and his band without anyone complaining. The devout fans of each are relatively one and the same. It is Luck." He nodded, candle light in his golden hair. He lifted his hand, fingers naturally clawed, and tended to his well manicured nails. "They are all like one large cat that has stopped to muse over it's natural faculties. To pounce, or not to pounce. Neil at the befuddled head, Evan, Domonic and Christopher the massive paws, Demitri the lame one. And your Nicholas the great, responsible, always working back-bone." Angel had lifted her gaze, her green electric-shock eyes to Stephen half way through his metaphor. He felt her eyes upon him and his leather riding boot creaked as the ankle upon his opposite knee shifted. He protested… "'s True." His senses fluffed. Angel smiled and then remembered she was distraught.

"Take advantage…
…of the situation"
"In it's entirety." Chimed the twins in their usual alternation and collectiveness.

"I would that I could save him." Angel sighed softly, all the stories in her mind flaring. All the memories that were not hers warring for the space within her skull. Doomed to a compartment that will always be more small and petit than even the common woman or man.

Stephen frowned and then he asked the question of all questions. "But Angel, save him from what? Himself? There isn't another power at work here." She continued her pacing even under his implications, which she was in complete ignorance of, because the thought have never crossed her mind. "…is there?" Tentatively.

"How should I Know?" Said the Muse. Of Tragedy. Doomed to know every story save her own.

Stephen stroked the smooth angles of his chin, as from the corner of his blue eyes he caught the Twins lapping at each other's thin throats. He felt a heat flame in his form and he denied it by catching glimpses rather than staring. A brow rose, the other dipped. He looked thoroughly contemplative.

Your Music…when she is here.
Your fervor. When she dances.
Muse! There was a puzzle! You are it!
So close, no matter how far…

"Flew too high and burnt the wing"-- Millicent & Angel
6/8/00 11:37 PM Eastern Daylight Time

It did her no good to twist and turn. No more good then it did to murmur quietly into her sheets or her pillow case. The night eased slowly by her, whispering dreams and subtleties into her ears, past her lips, through her eyes... through any receptacle for its wiles.

No matter. She slept soundly. She slept softly. She slept a deep and tranquil sleep. It had been ages.


"I'd only heard of you. He doesn't really talk about..."

"And why should he? He's got everything to hide, and nothing to lose."

The two slender figures at the bar were little more than silhouettes amongst the backdrop of busy figures. Two girls were tended by Nick, and though he was particularly gentle with them, particularly kind, he neither listened to their discussion, nor interrupted them to refill their glasses. He simply refilled them as he saw fit, transforming the hand-span tall glasses into unending founts. The idea reminded him of an old ballad he used to sing to his daughter, yet it saddened him to realize he had long forgotten the refrain. Time takes many boons. Too many.

"Did he catch you... or was it something more of a ...?"

"Wooing? Courting? Nothing so sweet. I am small and he is not. He is crafty, I am naive. He gets everything he desires, and I desire nothing."

"I still don't understand. But...if you don't like it, why don't you just leave?"

"And how long would that last? It would be like you- running from your needles, from your skeletons in the closet, has it ever worked, Millicent Grim?"

"I suppose it hasn't, but who's to say it never shall?"

The piercing green eyes of the girl stared into her. Their almond shape and their churning colours were almost unnerving, but who would look away from mysteries? Who would turn their head from an answer? A real Answer?

"'re killing my hope, my dreams here, kid."

"Well isn't that just fitting? It seems like I'm performing my-" The smaller figure cocked its head. The gesture was much like an animal, and indeed, much of what she was seemed feral, or torn from the forest or the plains. Even the point of her proffered ear was reminiscent of stories of old woods. Woods with thick dark trees that denied even the forest floor of sunlight. Places with secrets, places that lived under a different moon.

"I'm sorry."


And the girl swiveled her head to the singer. There was a discourse of eyes that spoke volumes few books had ever revealed. White lashes flickered over white cheeks, and the tiny figure took it's companion's hand between her own.

"Milli, I shall tell you a story. And I shall begin it with an apology.
I'm sorry."


Melpomene and Millicent

*Title by Trent

This is an experimental story. My muse of Tragedy, so long created. So long ago locked into the uppermost rooms of the Sacrifice Clubs, meets her youngest boon. Circle and circle and circle. Days have past, it is now quite fashionable to play a muse. But Angel was the first. Never forget. "She who became Her"

Neil: "blue, blue, electric blue"
10/6/00 4:35 PM Eastern Daylight Time

o/~ ...that's the colour of my room. Where I will live. Blue blue.
Pale blinds drawn all day, nothing to read, nothing to say. Blue blue.

I will sit right down, waiting for the gift of sound and vision. And I will sing
Waiting for the gift of sound and vision

Drifting into my solitude.
Over my head

don't you wonder sometimes o/~
Playing in Neil’s office— “David Bowie”

Neil was lain out on the couch in his office. His svelte body was all leather and angles. His ankles were crossed and he was more on his side then his back. On a combination of hip-bone and stomach sat a precariously held beer bottle. Guinness, actually. In his other hand he held a book, held open to his page by a thumb pressed between the folds of the spine.
His features were calm, but every now and then they moved with the faintest smirk or the quietest laugh. He was actively involved in reading the novel in his hands. It was something by Burroughs with a Brueghel on the cover. The nearness of its completion thrilled him to no end, and so he was deeply submerged in the narrative scrawled out in his imagination. Because of this, Laurent (Domonic's replacement after his untimely demise) had been able observe the great leader in his natural habitat.
Laurent had dove-grey eyes, and they were avid participants in any expression he made. More often than not they were the only features of him that held expression. He was quiet but razor sharp. Something had hewn him to a point, it clipped his sentences short and made every word he chose to speak quite poignant. He was the most laconic of the group, but he also had the most velvet speaking voice. Neil had scooped him up the moment he had found him.
Laurent and his piano slender fingers made madness when the group practiced, and Neil was top of the line lately. Self-control. And that was what had drawn Neil to Laurent. Laurent dripped presence, it was as plain to see as his boss silver hair and his soft eyes.
No-one was quite sure whether Neil found it an enjoyment to have him around, or just a constant reminder that he had something close at hand to conquer. It was probably a little of both. Laurent's easy smirks and aloof nature ground in the idea nearly everywhere he went. The rest of the group had nothing but respect for him, however. They just knew he was inherently an asshole.
Laurent spoke with the most subtle accent only the skilled could pinpoint to a little town in southern France.
The other raised his eyes slowly, taking his time at toiling over a paragraph and looking not-surprised in the slightest. "Yes?"
Laurent licked his lips. "I have a request."
Neil shrugged but his eyes narrowed. They dipped to slits and his smile became thin lipped and serpentine. "Sure." There was a finality in his voice that made Laurent tilt his head. He felt as though the question were being answered, not just the request for the request.
Neil continued, "Just don't let her kill you." He smirked something hard, his prominent teeth nuzzling his lower lip.
Laurent shrugged and slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks. His shoulders raised and lowered. Part shrug, part convenience.

Neil went back to reading. Laurent left as quietly as he had come.
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PostPosted: Tue Mar 20, 2018 4:22 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

[This story (ca. 2001) is a creative writing exercise deeply inspired by "Calliope" by Neil Gaiman]

‘A Woman He Loved Profoundly’

They all used to ask me how I’d met her. I liked telling them that it was at some blasé social gathering I was connived into attending. Sometimes I’d think up a story about spilling Dom on her dress at New Years. I’d smirk and simply have to give an example of my smoothness by adding how I had insisted I’d buy her a new one if she only gave me her phone number. Sometimes I would think up something more romantic (I think everyone liked this one best), like we had met in the park and ‘right then I knew I had to have her’. At more intimate retellings where I was supposed to elaborate I’d talk about the first flower I’d sent to her door- one white rose, or the first movie we’d watched on my couch- The Seventh Seal. That never got a good response. “Typical” or “John, what were you thinking?” they’d say, and I’d have to spend ten minutes promising them it wasn’t even my idea (that’s what they wanted to hear).

People generally like to hear the little details- as though they wanted to imagine the meeting on their own. I think they also liked hearing me open up some soft side or another. People also like to hear a writer tell stories about his own life. As though we were constantly narrative geniuses. I’d tell them how I was always enamored with her will-o’-the-wisp eyes and the coy way she’d tuck her hair behind her ear when she was uneasy. I’d also tell them that she was the only woman who was good enough looking to wrap my arm around in public. “The Perfect Girl for you,” my editor would tell me. “She’s doing wonders for your work,” he’d say in his slightly authoritative but genuinely pleased monotone.

Like usual, he had no idea what he was talking about.

So what’s the first problem in all of this? What’s the crux in my introduction? I didn’t meet her. I caught her. No, I don’t mean I stole her away from some wallstreet flake, or some over-the-hill doctor. I mean I went out hunting for her, and I caught her. Though it wasn’t with a conventional method—there’s no bar-hunting in this story.

I’d been in Greece learning the lay of the land for myself and my current novel. My editor called it an ‘art day’. He thought these trips would clear up writer’s block and get the ‘ole creative juices flowing’. Inside the Walls was giving me more problems than I was used to, so I was visiting the actual place it was set in-- Corinth. Seeing as it was on my time, but on his cash, I took the opportunity to see some of the places I’d only learned about in college texts. I had had a weakness for these things since I was a little kid watching Kirk Douglas in Sparticus and that wicked claymation in Clash of the Titans.

The walk up the acropolis’ side was slow, but under my feet the sand and the trail were hundreds of years old. I was being reflective, trying to get something out of this trip that would pry me out of my writer’s block. I have to admit, I was enthralled and just simply in awe of everything. Standing there had hundreds of stories thundering like Zeus’ lightening through my brain. Mythology and history were my inspirations for some of my first novels. I suppose first novels are easiest to write if you keep them somewhat true to the things you love. As much as I understood that, and tried to adhere to it, I was well aware of the agony of going months without keeping a single page I’d typed. Standing on that pile of rocks where men had stood centuries before me, men who had done things greater than I’ll ever do-- well, it didn’t help my feeling of being small and insignificant. What was worse was feeling, no, knowing that the same applied for this crappy book I was writing. I was becoming more and more sure a total toss-out would do me better than any revision ever could.

Eventually I dragged myself to the top of the hill where some of the city fortifications still stood and decided it wasn’t anonymous enough. I needed some time up there alone with myself. Well, alone with myself and my book. I trudged through the smooth rubble and pushed through a small copse of trees. The wind was mean up there that day, and so my pushing through the bushes didn’t make a sound in comparison to the howling of that wind.

She was very pale. That was the first thing I noticed. Her skin was the colour of milk and her red hair tumbled down her back and into the silvery surface of the water. She was bathing. I can’t even tell you how long it took me to figure that out. I was just staring for a good five minutes, something about her was just so unnatural. Eventually I gave her some modesty, it was the least I could do. I lowered my eyes, and then I saw them. The scroll and the mirror were sitting on the edge of the bathing pool.

Something in my mind just clicked.

The scroll gleamed with this bright, ethereal fire and the mirror sparkled silver like fish scales under a moon-lit stream. Maybe it was dumb luck and coincidence, or maybe I just had a knack to work on impulse. I knew my stories. I knew the myths, but it took me forever to connect what I was about to do with something I knew and a justification for it. Personally, I think it was something about the hill I was standing on. Something about being where I was, in the state I was in. How could I not have recalled how to capture the very thing I’d gone up that hill to find? ***, maybe it was just her.

My muse.

I smoked back then. I still had my normal vices at that point. I pocketed the mirror. I smiled at my reflection reassuringly as I did it. It was a young face-- the world ahead of me, my inspiration at hand. It was easy to burn the scroll. A Zippo will light in the worst of winds and rains- good old American craftsmanship. That ancient piece of paper went up like straw, and I watched it sparkle and crackle with some detached wonder. I was as interested in what would happen as I was automatically ashamed. This was supposed to bind her. This was supposed to capture her. I went up here looking for a muse, and *** did I find one.

But I was happy. I deserved this. That’s what I convinced myself. I watched her freedom burn away under my fingertips. She was unknowing. She didn’t turn around till the last piece was turning to ash on the ground. I wonder what it feels like, your freedom being burned away like that. Does it feel something like a chill? A draft? Or is it more quick, like a jogging-cramp in your ribs? I would have asked her if I had been able to. Instead I just kneeled there over the ashes and watched this person, no, this thing become mine. It was like finally being able to see what liberty really is. I was watching an idea and a thought, like love or sympathy, actually happen. I studied her in a way a writer does. Watching every nuance of this idea strike her. It was pure and she knew exactly what I had done.

The look she gave me was one of terror. Something in her faded, I had to discover her attributes all over again. Yet she was still more haunting than anything I had ever seen. Maybe it was because of what she meant to me.

“Which one are you?” I asked her. My voice was all breath.

She just looked at me, keeping the water at a decent level. I reached to a place I thought I’d seen her clothes laying just moments before. There was nothing there but a dull shimmer. It startled me, but I reflexively started to pull off my jacket.

“It’s all right. Really.” I felt like a drunk frat boy trying to corner a cheerleader. It wasn’t the most pleasant of feelings.

The corners of her lips turned down, and she had the most exquisite moue. I almost regretted what I did. I put my jacket around her shoulders, and she smelled like … inspiration. I don’t think I can quite explain it. She smelled like everything I’d been looking for. She reminded me of those days when I used to be able to just sit there for hours and write and write and write. She reminded me of the smell of honey-suckles growing in my mother’s garden—something strangely familiar. She reminded me of the feeling I got at the end of a book or lighting up a cigarette after drinking champagne.

She didn’t move when I put my coat around her. And I don’t really know why I kissed her, I just know that there was nothing else in the world I wanted to do more. I kissed her throat and she made this quiet little sound. Something half enjoying it and something half deathly afraid of it. It woke up something in me, I’d never been a *** guy. I’d never been the type to be overly possessive or want to own someone like the way I was going to own her. But that noise she made, I could feel it in my stomach. And god help me, between that and the way she made me feel I wanted to… I wanted more.

Oh, it was hell getting her back to the States. But I didn’t leave Greece for a month to ensure I could get her home with me. My editor bitched and whined, but he couldn’t whine for long. I finished my book before the week was out. The ending was killer and even the Best Seller’s list knew that for a few months. My editor was proud of me. I was proud of me too, but I also knew it wasn’t just me. It was her.


I gutted one of the empty rooms on the second floor of my house. I made it soft and pretty. I think I fancied it more as a place to keep a toy than a woman. A woman who still hadn’t said a word to me. A woman who sat there like a doll, barely moving, just watching me with her very-green eyes peeking out from auburn lashes. She looked broken and she stared. For a while I could only stare back, and then I looked beyond my awe and had to always look away from her. I’m not sure if it was guilt then. I’m not sure if I ever felt guilty. Beyond furnishing her room with things that were feminine I didn’t do much else for her. I even dressed her in my own casual clothes. I had to put them on her myself. I would find myself smelling the sweet floral scent of her hair, or pressing my lips to her neck or her knuckles. Something about her femininity was hypnotically alluring, but even after that was done, like clockwork, I’d reap the benefit of just her presence- I’d write a short story. I’d write a novella. I could finish manuscripts with a breath of her and I could write novels if I touched her.

It took me weeks to realize she was thinking inside there. It took me that long to realize that sometimes her lips ever so faintly moved into a smile or a frown. It took me that long to see the faint creases at the corners of her eyes move. She scared the *** out of me. I had no idea what to do with her.

I’d be away from her for hours and when I’d come back she hadn’t moved at all. Every wrinkle of the clothes I’d put her in would still be the same. Every tendril of her hair still slanted the same way. Do you know what was worse? When I’d come back and she’d moved maybe a finger or maybe just tilted her head. Instead of folding her hands in her lap I’d find her splaying her fingers over her knees. I’d study her for hours just to see if anything else had moved. For a week I sat there trying to figure out if she was breathing, and I always had this awkward idea that she was laughing at me when she saw me staring. But at the same time, I didn’t think she had ever laughed.

It sounds absurd but I don’t think it was. I didn’t think she had ever opened her mouth to make that noise. I don’t think the inclination had ever touched her eyes. All at once I thought I was finally losing my head. I could reason that I had her, I could reason that she wasn’t real, that this is the way things have always been, a man capturing a muse. I was fine with owning her and needing to be near her. But for some reason this idea of her laughing seemed crazy to me, like I was trying to impose some habit on her that made her human-- when I didn’t want that at all. How could I? I mean, this was some thing I had caught and locked in the room next to my bedroom. I much rather think of her as having no thoughts at all instead of being infinitely sad. Even if it seemed she was always that way. No, she couldn’t be sad. I couldn’t do that to someone.

She just looked like the pretty girl you always wanted to see laugh.

I should have known who she was then. It should have been easy as hell to figure out. But then something happened. And then it wasn’t as important for me to know her, as it was for me to keep her.

One day I caught her trying to climb out of the window. More movement than I had ever seen her do. I remember seeing her thin legs back peddle and her body try to squirm out onto the roof.

I went into a panic first, and then I went into a rage.

“What are you doing?!” I remember hearing my voice crack like I was a little kid again and my mom had found my porno mags. “What the hell do you think your doing?” Because, of course, she had no right to look in my room, just like this girl had no right to want out of her pretty little cell.

I grabbed anything of her I could. I grabbed her by the boxers I’d put her in, I grabbed her by the back of my old soccer shirt. I yanked her back through the window as I heard the threads snap in the “07” on the back. I grabbed her by the shoulders and I remember shaking her until finally, finally she said something to me.

“Stop, oh please, please stop.”

The sound of her voice made me do exactly what she asked. I wish I could say it was a human instinct to stop hurting her because she was begging me to. But it wasn’t any sort of sympathy that made me let her go. It was shock. I scanned her face. She was crying softly.

“Please,” she said.

I couldn’t look at her. I looked down at my hands that had wrapped hard around her arms above her tiny elbows. I must have stared at the contact of skin for minutes-- or hours. I could swear I was watching the finger-wide bruises bloom over her body. I’d hurt her.

I pushed her away, disgusted more with myself than her. The human mind has a problem with this. The human mind scrambles for a reason that will make sense of becoming so ugly. It’ll do anything it can in order to find out how it could be so discordant with the common ideas of sympathy and human interaction. Suddenly she went from some possession to something that could talk to me. Everything went stained and dirty. I was ugly. I. Was. Ugly.

I yelled at her. “Shut up! Don’t talk to me! God, Jesus. Don’t talk to me!”

She whimpered. I can only imagine what she was thinking. ‘This is it, this guy has finally flipped his ***, I’m going to get it.’ Perhaps that would have been better than my actual thoughts. My thoughts gave me motive rather than irrationality. I wasn’t going to let her go.

“My sisters, they-“

“You don’t have sisters! You don’t have anything! You live in this room, there’s nothing outside of it.” I was pushing her up against the window panes with one arm and jabbing my finger at the floor like she was a dog and I was pointing out her mistakes.

She tried to move and somehow, in my haze, I’d found out that the easiest way to hold her with one hand was around the base of her throat. She gasped, afraid. She was actually afraid.

And I could feel her fear well up under my fingertips. It was hot and smooth, and it felt like I’d slid my arm into sunlight at noon. It was inspiration again, her emotions were this elixir that mingled with my cells and made them sing. Touching her had always done that, but this was better.

So much better.

And that day I learned that sleeping with her, willing or not, would last me days. Days I’d spend locked up in my room just typing and typing and typing. She was more to me when she wasn’t willing. She did more for me when she cried through it all. And I can justify it. To this day I can justify it. Look what she did for me. And look what I did for her.


It was in her nature. It’s as simple as that. Just like it was in her nature to be so complacent. It was in her nature for me to bar up her windows and put locks on her door. It was in her nature to cry when I was finished with her. It was in her nature to not try to get away from me with every last drop of her being.

All of it made sense.

Do you see the games the mind plays? I’m as sure of this as you are that this is all fiction-- just another page in a John Villani collection. But it was her that gave me the string of books that bought me my house and my computer, my car and library. She was what won Nothing the accolade “The Hamlet of the new Millennium”.

I was so prolific nobody knew what to do with me. What was even better, was that I was so hard to find. I needed three concepts in my life. Food and water to keep me alive, paper and keyboard to keep me writing, and her to fill me with the ideas. I was this networked machine, and it worked so well it had to be right. She was my electricity.

My editor saw the change. You can only write so many books that make it into Time before you get a phone call on top of the checks. Or rather, you can only hole yourself up for a year or two before your editor actually wants to see you face to face.

“John,” he said. “Johnny-boy, there’s this get-together I want you to attend.”

“I don’t do public appearances,” I said with a gruff voice—more gruff than when I was smoking and shaving and cutting my hair. You know, the little things.

“John, it’s a dinner at my place. It’s hardly public.”

“Same thing.” He could hear me pulling the phone away from my mouth half way through the negative response.

“John, John!” he raised his voice, “I want you to meet this girl.”

“I have a girl.” I hung up the phone.

It took him only a day to get in his car and drive out to my place.


I’d been letting her out into the house more and more often. She moved, she walked, she dressed herself, but she never spoke to me. I preferred it that way. I still do.

She was utterly docile. It was hardly different from those first few weeks. Sure she moved but she was just there. Just there when I needed her or needed an intro, or a scene, or an ending, or an epilogue. A doll, only this one walked and sometimes sighed. Sometimes I would catch her sitting in a window seat, curled up around herself watching the outside or maybe just her reflection in the glass. It sounds sad, but that’s the way she always was. I’d have been thrown out of my equilibrium if she’d smiled or laughed or moved quicker than the haze I equated her to. She was this mist moving through my house. Sometimes she would watch me as I wrote, and I could literally feel her nearness licking up my ankles or wrapping me up like arms. She was soft and heavy and clung to my clothes. I’d look into the mirror and I could see the influences she had on me, like an addict staring into a mirror just to learn how to properly hate his own features. The eyes were a little too wide, the skin was a little too pale. A poke to the cheek showed the dark circles that reappeared to under-shadow my eyes.

It was easy to reason. Look what she’d done- look what I received. I only needed a little longer, another quick fix. I could swear she liked the struggle and the giving in. Whether it was hers or whether it was my own. For the last few months before my editor came to visit I’d conducted an experiment. I wanted to measure how my progress declined when I denied myself my inspiration. If I was ever worried I could just go into her room and take an easy fix. All I remember was that it was exponential. One touch equaled profound contentment on my part. The more the better. That simple equation meant she was good for me. And we were in harmony because she never complained. It was perfect as long as she was quiet. It was beautiful.

That’s exactly what my editor thought of her when she opened the door at his knock. I suppose she must have seen me do it before. I suppose she must have figured out a few day-to-day things by staying with me day-by-day.

“Oh, ehem. Hello there, dear.” I caught him mid sappy-smile. Removing her from his line of sight.

“What the f***, man. I told you to leave me alone.”

“No you didn’t, you said you weren’t going to go to any public appearances. This isn’t public anything.” He shrugged in a way that just dripped pride for his indisputable logic. “Who is she, John? She’s quite …”

“She’s my… I met her in… She’s my girlfriend.” I hadn’t been given enough time to stick to a story, so I avoided it all together. Somehow I was still on my toes. Somehow.

“Obviously,” he raised one of his thick brows. The cocky comment slid me back into a mode I’d thought I’d forgotten. I felt something like I used to, a way I had long since thought important. It was something infinitely less significant than ‘inspired’. I wanted to be alone with her again. “Are you going to let me in?” he interrupted my thoughts.

“No,” I smirked. To avoid questions was the only reason I opened the door. I saw her slide away slowly. She looked at me and she looked at the open door, and I wasn’t sure which she seemed more afraid of. At least I think it was a fear in her eyes, it could have been repulsion. It had been a favorite past time of mine to imagine that she hated me. That was a notion that made it all easier.

My editor came in and had a smile for the both of us. But the one for her lingered a little longer than the one for me. He concluded my portion with a sharp, “Damnit, John. You look like hell.”

“And you sound like an over used parody of Bones,” I frowned at him. “F***in’ Sci-Fi.” I felt her shifting on her feet beside us. My blood was curdling at the very thought she would make a run for it. I’d never thought she’d…

“I like those stories,” said she-- quiet and gentle, her voice made me dizzy.

My editor laughed, he thought it was a riot. “Oh man, you two must get along great.” She shrugged and pushed a tendril of her red hair behind the white shell of her ear. She glanced up at me and then turned to leave. My editor stopped her. “Oh no, please, stay. I’d like to see what has Johnny Boy half out of his mind. Nevermind making me a rich man. Is that your doing, darling?”

Her lower lip trembled. It was as easy as that simple gesture. All at once hair-line fissures spread a spider web through the bullet proof glass I’d set up around the two of us. I ground my teeth and wanted to push her up against a wall. Her wide eyes were melancholy but innocent of everything, and she’d always made this man in me want to show her what it meant to be innocent- the bait and nutrients for a vivacious hunger. Wasn’t that what I had been nursing and growing the whole time? A palette for her? A dependency?

In one minute I was the guilty man, the mad man, the abductor and the abducted. And the editor was talking—

“So what’s your name?” he so naively asked.

I knew her name. I had never known her name. I had always known her name.


I’d caught the only one that could ruin me—pure Tragedy.

“You have to leave.” My editor looked more than surprised.

“John, I wanted to ask you about-“

“I’ll go to your function. You have to go.”

“You should bring… your-“

“No.” I had the door closed before he could remember to inquire. It took a century for him to finally decide to go to his car. I didn’t pull my weight off the door till I’d stopped seeing the shadows his headlights made in the hall-way. Her features glowed white in the night-light.


“God, Don’t ever say my name.” Don’t ever make this personal. Don’t ever think you’re anything but my inspiration. Don’t ever think you’re more than that first line, that first beer, that first hit.


I made her abide by that for five years. That’s how long it took me to pull it all together. Five years and 30 novels- She Knows No Quarter, Melancholy Pirouette, Tears and Darjeeling, Electra Electrode, and Sunless were the most popular. I hadn’t thought about touring till they finally convinced me this year. Actually, it had been rather impossible since I couldn’t very well bring her with me on tour. That would have meant I’d have to bring her to functions and signings. And with all those writers around, how could they not know?

I still poke around at my face in the mirror. It’s shaved clean but there’s still a little bit of her always caught in the corners of my eyes. Like sand from the sandman.

She’s become somewhat catatonic again. I’m not sure when it happened. I think it must have been around last Christmas. I remember wondering if she was dead, if I’d finally *** up. What would I do without her?

I have a picture of her in my wallet. It seemed like the normal thing to do for a man who was ‘engaged’. The public announcement was my editor’s idea. He thought it was perfect, he thought the public would be thrilled to have a reason for my prosperity. How romantic was the notion that a writer had a muse? ‘A woman he loved profoundly’, I believe is what the caption had said.

I wonder if she knows. I wonder if she understands that I honestly do believe I must somewhere love her. It’s a writer’s nature to love something like that. Perhaps it’s my only way to thank her. Sometimes I’ll whisper it into the curve of her ear. Sometimes I’ll breathe it on the nape of her neck.

I wonder if she realizes who owns who.
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