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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm


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PostPosted: Wed Aug 31, 2016 8:25 pm    Post subject: Insert Title. Reply with quote

Title: "Shake your fist at the gates saying, 'I have come home now.'" -- Tool

Quote:
Crazy how it feels tonight
Crazy how you make it all alright, love.


He knew she was coming. As sure as Angel was dead, he knew that she, this pale reflection of his hypnotic muse, was here…

Was home.

With all his preternatural graces, victories, travesties and tragedies… he knew. And thus, he was the dark, sleek, shadow-cat leaning against a wall in the alley as she rounded the corner onto the street. She would never see him coming. She never had, and she never would. Not before, not now, and not in any future left to her or him or them or us or they.

She rounded the corner like a ghost, but he knew she was actually a winter storm. He couldn’t help but cross his arms over his chest—an utterly useless defensive stance for something that sickens the heart and tears at the soul through time and space. If only she had the constitution to become a weapon. So much potential. But really, that was the irony of it, wasn’t it? She wouldn’t hurt a fly or a flower… on purpose. She would lay waste to king and country with not a modicum of cruel intent, and they would thank her as the life’s blood ran thick and crimson into the rocks and rivers. He gave an abrupt exhale that still managed to be silent in the drowsy violets of pre-dusk. He inhaled the sweet and earthy scent of this afternoon’s warm rain as it rose from the puddles on the street. He saw the smile on his lips in the reflection near his shoes. He banished it immediately.

“Crush me….with those… things you do…” the words slithered to him like a harbinger before the crescendo of battle. Oh Millicent…

He realized then, that she was singing and completely lost to the world. She was wearing an asymmetrical, haute couture coat that was somewhere between Victorian and Armani. Shockingly, it was black. But it was a beautiful, rich black that spoke of fur (thick…lustrous…) and soot (dead). But then it drank the sun light. He thought this an odd effect. Magic? Did she? No, probably not. But it didn’t shine like anything that was…well… a thing. It looked like the liquid afterimage of suede or crepe. For a brief moment he thought that this was like how her voice felt. You wanted to wrap it around you and smother yourself with that intimacy that drank you in, caressed you, even as it whispered to you of weeping. She was always the warm breath against the soft skin beneath your ear. He glanced down at his feet again. He smiled softly to himself, as if he shared a joke with her too buried in secrets to make eye contact while remembering. The smile touched the creature’s eyes. Oh Millicent…

“And I do, for you…anything toooo ohhh….” How old was that song? He searched his memory while he watched her. She had two fingers of her delicate white hand holding a white earbud in her right ear. He noticed that she wore no rings, she wore no jewelry that he could see whatsoever. The milk and bone (swan and dove) was unbroken. She was a little older, but he could only tell when he looked at her hands. They were more slender and defined. Caresses against a cheek. Tuck a tuft of hair behind your ear. They were less innocent somehow. He tried to place the details that tipped the look of the child she had been into the young woman he saw now. He couldn’t place it, it was like sand through the fingers of memory and time.

“Sitting.” He realized then that she had been walking with her eyes closed. She paused now. “Smoking.” Just… in the music. Her other hand fluttered softly at shoulder height like she was conducting a private orchestra. “Feeling high….” … or no, of course not. It was her goth girl roots. She was conducting, but she was also starting to dance.

“And in this moment….ohhh” That voice. It was old and it was young. It certainly came from an old soul. It reminded him of Fiona Apple, but it could sometimes become a little lighter, a bit brighter. She could be more playful and demure. He didn’t think there was a girl he’d met, not in 500 years, who really knew how to turn an ingénue into a coquette so effortlessly. Not like Millicent Grim. But we digress. If there was a hint of some other voice in her’s, he couldn’t put a finger on it. Fiona was similar enough to cloud the mind. Her wandering arm snaked a little higher into the air. He fondly recalled the masses of black-clad girls winding like boiling serpents in the Sacrifice Club.

“…It feels so riiighhhtttt.” She had stopped walking. Whether it was whim or maybe even a brief surfacing of self-consciousness, she pushed the dancing left hand back through her unruly, winter-white tresses. Her hair, now, was a more mature mimicry of her signature look. This was not club going, half dreaded, pig-tail locks—the white hair had been pulled back from her heart-shaped face by two invisible barrettes. Her hair was a bit shorter, but the length was indeterminable as the hair had been crimped and teased. There was something animalistic in that unruliness. He felt she looked a bit more feline than usual. Perhaps it was the makeup (a leonine smoky eye), but the look always finished in her features. The length of her petal-shaped, doll lips in relation to her pert nose were a part of it… also something about the way her hair fell in sheaves at either side of her face. No one would say she looked like a cat, nor that she was going for that look…. but out of the corner of the eye… Well. Just a little. And it suited her. But he couldn’t tell if it made her look more girlish, more sexual, or just more impish. He supposed she could also, very easily, look cruel. Hmm.

“Lovely lady…” the left hand, palm forward, went back to conducting the undertow of the song. Her white fingers danced like snowflakes in an updraft. “I am at your feeeeeeet oooo” The other hand left her ear and splayed three fingers across her lips, the tip of her smallest finger traced the lower of the two. “Ooh god I, want you so, badly…” The winding, dancing hand retreated again (– no, it was not self-consciousness, it was the need to feel something) and slipped back to the nape of her neck and up through her hair-- fluffing out those unruly tresses. He looked away for a moment. Remembering.

Her.

Her voice cast the spell of reflection and dreams.

Quote:
And I wonder this:
Could tomorrow be
so wondrous as you there sleeping?
Let's go drive 'till morning comes.
Watch the sunrise and fill our souls up.
Drink some wine 'till we get drunk. Yeah!
It's crazy I'm thinking
Just knowing that the world is round
And here I'm dancing on the ground
Am I right side up or upside down?
And is this real or am I dreaming?



When he refocused his gaze on her, she really hadn’t moved much. Her inky coat had fallen open to show the very simple white silk shift she was wearing. For a moment he had thought she wore nothing beneath her coat. White on White on White. Then he thought how this plain silk thing looked like a nightgown more than a dress. It was something more likely to be seen on the body of some wondering, somnambulant, B-movie vampire’s victim. Just cobweb-silk from throat to thigh. He saw collar bones, nipples and hip bones through it. Oh. Millicent.

“Lovely lady…” she crooned. Her left hand lowered from her hair, slipping back around her neck, and took to holding the opposite earbud to her ear. Her other hand, fingers like milky rain, trickled down from her lips to her chin, then down her throat to her silk-wrapped collar bones. “Let me drink you pleaasseeeeeee.” It kept moving down until eventually she wrapped her arm around her ribs, just below her high breasts. She rocked softly to the music in her ears. “I won’t spill a drop no, I promise you.” The music began to sway in her hips. “Lying under ..the spell you cast on meeeeee eeee.” He could hear the hush and mumble of silk on the skin of her thighs underneath her voice. “Each moment, the more ...I love... you.” She had stopped on the edge of a puddle and the sandals (half-Spartan, half-Bowie) that striped her calves in black leather splashed quietly in the warm water. He could smell the scent of her- honeysuckle, myrrh, magnolia… vanilla…. ambergris. He was carried away on those susurrus scents and sounds. Fall leaves. Wet streets. Dragon’s Blood resin. Violence.

Quote:
Crush me.
Come on. Oh yeahhh!
It's crazy I'm thinking
Just knowing that the world is round
And here I'm dancing on the ground.
Am I right side up or upside down?
Is this real or …or am I dreaming?


Her shoulders undulated and she danced to the interlude. She patted out the rhythm on her stomach sometimes, sometimes a thigh. Her hands traced the perfect story of the music in the air and on her skin and silk. She pressed and traced the liquid cloth against the outline of her figure. She was the music and the siren. But Millicent was also the sea that this would drown you in. He was offhandedly aware that there were passersby. He had naught to worry about, of course. And really (apparently?), neither did she. Women, men, and even the occasional child smiled as they encountered the singing girl. Their steps lightened as they passed her, making room for her, as she washed away their sins and their worries in the fount and chrism of her voice.

It was all an accident. A whim. A street miracle. It was priceless. And so very human.

She started to walk again. He thought for a moment that he saw a sliver of those absinthe coloured eyes, but he couldn’t be sure. She must see to walk, non? “Lovely lady…” she crooned. “I will treat you sweeeeeetly,” his heart began to hurt, like a witch or a spirit was wrapping it up with long nailed and skeletal fingers. “Adore you. I mean. You crush me,” could she crush the glittering, pulsing light out of the center of him with the way her voice caught the song? “And it's times like these” for some reason he was forced to think of the paintings of Vermeer. He thought of light trickling through windows-- illuminating, technical, and prideful. “When my faith I feeeeeeeeeeel ....” But so beautiful. So hypnotizingly surreal. More real than real. He stepped back into the shadows, or tried to. He hadn’t realized how he had already pressed himself back against the bricks of the wall in that dim alley. Had he already tried to flee her? “And I know how I love you.”

He shook his head. It knocked the fog from his senses. But not enough to think twice about stepping into the light of the street after he saw her pass. “Come on.” He exhaled thickly. “Come on.” He traced his eyes down her form. It felt like he was caressing her. Maybe licking her. Maybe strangling her with his eyes. “Baby.”

Perhaps tomorrow, he thought. Besides. He had work to do for the Club tonight.

Quote:
It's crazy. I'm thinking
Just as long as you're around
And here I'll be dancing on the ground.
Am I right side up or upside down?
To each other we'll be facing
by love, by love, we'll beat back the pain we've found
You know
I mean to tell you all the things I've been thinking deep inside.
My friend,
Each moment the more I love you.

Crush me
Come on.
Baby!
So much you have given, love,
That I would give you back again and again
Oh. Love.
The Meaning. I'll hold you
And please please just let me always...


• Title by Tool.
• The song is “Crush” by Dave Matthew’s. (Gross.)
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm


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PostPosted: Fri Sep 02, 2016 9:17 am    Post subject: "Oh, Oh on Borderland we run." Reply with quote

“Wait. I can’t stay here.”

Jonathan had already unzipped her bag and began scattering things around on his bed. He stopped, straightened and looked at her. “What? Why?”

“Jon.” She raised one brow and tilted her face to one side, it was both inquisitive and a little exasperated. It was like the weight of that brow unbalanced her entire head.

“Ok, Ok…” he backed both hands away from the bag and spread his fingers, supplicating and asking for a pause. “I mean. I get that. But …” The next diatribe was all about rapid fire convincing (or maybe the shotgun effect): “I haven’t seen you in years. Where are you going to go? You have a hundred million things to talk to me about. I missed you. This is nuts. Do you really think there’s someplace safer? Some place more private? Eventually they will all know where you are, it’s going to be about being effective about keeping people away. Who do you think is the best at keeping people away? (Or just… keeping people anything?) Hell, I can even think of three people who are. And you know what? They are all here. Here!” Jonathan no longer had to breathe, so he hadn’t. And he talked so rapidly it was alarming. But his eyes glittered. (What colour were those eyes?) And they held the rest of his huge, bright, … and fanged smile.

Had she ever seen his fangs before? She didn’t think so. She imagined that was something they taught in vampire school. Lesson One: Smile only This Much. (Or not at all.)

“I just…” she inhaled slowly “can’t.”

Well. He couldn’t argue with that. They both sighed.

“Ok, Milli,” he said quietly. He had such a gentle touch. It reminded her of before everything had happened to them. That tone made her heart actually ache.

They both took a moment and thought. She pursed her lips. He bit the corner of one.

“Look,” she began, “I still have some time. I should have come back here before I put that thing out. You know.. to catch up and… just be around… but I just... I guess I put it off as long as possible. But this will be the first place anyone looked.” She pursed her lips, “Hell, they may just come here to ask why it wasn’t a Black Hand label release. They may come here to interview Lorne or something. I can’t just be hanging around.”

He thought she was done and began to say something, “But-.“

“And I’m just not into this scene right now.”

“—What scene are you into?”

She laughed. They both laughed.

Then it was silent for a little while. “Do you know who bought the loft?”

Jonathan looked guilty. That white brow raised on her face again. “Geh. Milli! Ok, I never sold it.” He threw his hands in the air.

“Wait… What?”

He frowned and then “Hey. If you didn’t even notice the change or lack of change in your bank account who’s really the problem here? I mean really.”

“I don’t think that’s…. Ok, you have a point.”

“I just couldn’t. Besides, do you know who made me the first offer on it?”

“…who?”

“Let’s just say you would have …. Just no. They even offered over-market. I couldn’t do it.”

She imagined different people that she hadn’t liked that much dictating to a crew of movers where to put boxes in that big, 3 story room with the windows that she loved.

“Ok.” And then, “Thank you.”

He grinned at her. It was so boyish and bright and truly happy. There was an awkward, poignant silence when he stopped. And she knew it was coming before he moved. Which was good, because she really didn’t see him close the distance between them. He was 3 or 4 feet away and then he was none. She was scooped up in arms and lifted from the ground and hugged roughly and tightly and securely and perfectly. She was all tension but he wouldn’t let her go until she gave in. And she did, eventually. She went soft and supple in his arms and she wrapped her arms around his upper chest and buried her face in his shoulder. She was overwhelmed by the memories of these hugs, just as she was overwhelmed by his very pure emotion (delight and sadness) at seeing her again. All of this caught in her throat. She almost spoke but she realized that whether she wanted it or not, she was going to cry. Millicent was not a crier. She started to become uncomfortable, but Jonathan knew everything so he just let the hug last a little longer while she composed herself. She nuzzled his shoulder and he traveled a shuffling mirage of memories as he breathed in the scent of her hair.

“Ok, Jon. You can put me down.” He dropped her a few inches when he realized that yes, he had picked her up off her feet. Then he lowered her the last few and placed her gently on the floor.

“F***. I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

They just smiled at each other for a few more seconds. Then Jon was a flutter of movement. “Ok, Ok, Ok! Let’s get you home.”

“No.”

Of course. Of course it would be no. For all the reasons she already said and a few hundred more. He paused for just a second and then continued gathering up items here and there. “K. Then let’s get you to ….” He thought … “Lars’ place and we’ll—“

“He’s still alive?”

Jonathan glanced at her over his shoulder. “What? Yes. … Is he not supposed to be?”

“No, I…. I just… I’m surprised by that.”

“I forget. Did you get along with Wintermute? Because if you didn’t then we should—“

“Yes.” She was smiling just knowing that that big dog was still around as well. “Yes, I did.”

“Ok, good. Because if you didn’t then it would be no Bueno.” He turned to face her. “…I picked Lars because no one would look for you there. Lorne runs the label… My house doesn’t make sense…” It was the people he omitted that told her a few things. “… I clearly didn’t even consider Laurent’s but –“

“Yeah. No. That’s ok.” They both shared a shiver. “Lars’ is fine.”

“Cool. He’s not here by the way. So Winter isn’t either… but I’m not sure when they are coming home. Besides, we’ll find you a place and move you out maybe even before they get back.”

She thought it was a great idea.

“I’ll send him a text.” He glanced up and to the left, thinking. “I think he’s in Germany… Do you have a phone?”

“No.”

“I’ll bring you one. Besides,” he continued, “he has that really cool balcony thing. And that back yard. And that veranda…” Both of them had always liked Lars’ place. Milli had only been there once. Other than what they imagined he sometimes used the balcony for, they couldn’t figure out how or why a guy like Lars lived in such a … provincial place as he did. It was easier to think of Lars’ place as Lorne’s and vice versa.

“Which one of them had that cool pool?”

“That’s Lorne’s. But Lars has that hot Jacuzzi thing. Germans.”

“Oh yeah.”

And off they were. One tragedy avoided.




**Title by U2.
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Last edited by Millicent Grim on Fri Sep 02, 2016 10:46 am; edited 1 time in total
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Young Wyrm
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PostPosted: Fri Sep 02, 2016 10:33 am    Post subject: "She turned away, what was she looking at?" Reply with quote

Jonathan had seen to everything, for the most part. Being fussed over so emphatically was difficult for her to stand in large doses. At least, when it was by friends and people not obligated to care about her. She had very simply forgotten that that was also his job. She had had looked just alarmingly tired when he had returned 45 minutes later to bring her a phone. He’d gotten it in white. But he could tell she just wanted to be alone. It had nothing to do with him, it had all to do with being forced to interact, almost intimately, with multiple people for several days. And all of these interactions were under the threat of discovery as well as the electric energy that filled the air around her. She thought she could feel the internet in the air. She’d log on from her laptop and see smoky tendrils reaching for her. A lot of it was positive, people who missed her and good reviews. But all of the hands reaching through the ether were greedy and removed from her well-being and her heart. She felt them grabbing, but she was also aware of the brutal strength that pulsed from her and eradicated the after images of these grasps. She was numb. They couldn’t touch her. She checked on these things out of a morose curiosity as well as an echo of self-preservation.

Oh that was funny. She believed it, but it wasn’t self-preservation-- she just didn’t want to be surprised. She was going to go about her business and her day to day until she knew that she needed to lay low for a while. She would do that until people felt like they couldn’t make money off of her because she was uninteresting. The most persistent and pervasive thing that Milli would probably have to deal with was the fans. And Milli never cared about the fans. Wait, no. She cared about them, but she never worried about them. Not for herself. Jonathan was always alarmed by this. He was sure that if a fan wanted to capture her in a cage and lock her up in their basement Milli wouldn’t even argue. She’d do her duty and warble from between the bars until whoever it was was ready to let her go. Whoever it was had had enough. The idea sickened and terrified him. Jonathan’s protectiveness of Millicent was like a sleeping madness. And everyone knew it was there. It was always there, somniferous at the edge of his eyes when he was with her. Jonathan knew that Milli would probably wait till they were done-- had their fill. The problem was that no one ever had their fill. “Christ,” he murmured when he left Lars’ place for the last time.

He called Lars. “So, you’re sure it’s ok?”

“Doesn’t really matter. I’m not there.” Jonathan almost double checked but he knew that Lars wasn’t someone to be passive aggressive. This was about logic and efficiency. He had a place. He wasn’t in it. Someone else may as well be.

“Ok. Cool.” Jonathan tried to remember if he had extended all the obligatory pleasantries that one should go through when one invited themselves over someone else’s place.

In the silence, Lars added. “So… she look all right?”

“Uh…” Jonthan grimaced. It felt very weird and unnerving to be asked a question like that from a man who lived in black and white. The nonchalance was like nails grating on a chalk board. “I mean… Wait, what do you mean?”

Lars considered this. “I think that answers the question sufficiently. Does Neil know she’s around?”

“I think he knew before she did.”

“Ah.”

“I don’t think that’s reassuring.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.”

“Should I talk to Neil?”

“Should you?”

Jonathan couldn’t tell if Lars was refusing to ask the question, commenting on his use of the word ‘should’ or what… “I really don’t understand how this could be an issue.”

“It will be, or it won’t.”

“I realize you are saying you don’t really care, and you wouldn’t get involved, but you sound like a f***ed up soothsayer. (And an a**hole.) You sound like Lamia.”

“Gross.” Lars laughed.

“Yeah. Gross."

“Well. Whatever. Thanks for the head’s up.”

“Do you need me to do anything or tell her any particular rules?”

“No.” What did Jonathan expect? Lars had probably lived out of a burn bag more than once. Lars’ life always reminded Jonathan of Robert De Niro explaining what the title of the movie “Heat” meant. “Just tell her I’ll be back in 3 weeks. So sometime around that Monday she should wear clothes when she walks around the house.” Jonathan could hear the wolf grin on the man’s mouth. He could imagine the shine in those ice-blue gunslinger’s eyes.

“Uh. Yeah.” Awkkkkward.

“Auf Wiedersehen.”

“Later.”

In the house, Millicent was staring at the phone and wondering if she even had any contacts to type in.



**Title by STP
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm


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PostPosted: Thu Sep 08, 2016 3:31 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Title:
“And now my bitter hands cradle broken glass of what was everything
All the pictures have all been washed in black, tattooed everything...”
- By Pearl Jam



Millicent stood under a willow tree, on the edge of a brook, in the middle of the park, near Lars’ place.

A warm-electric thunderstorm was rolling through the air. You could feel it on the skin in a lover’s caress or a muscle memory. …Or just a memory. It felt like ghost-fingers writing in warm paint and electricity. Her heart ached for that touch, yet with all of her will power she could not manifest the heart of the storm from the breeze. She was alone, but she was haunted. Not even the storm could keep her company or grant solace. She turned her head into the wind for a moment, nuzzling that sensation with closed eyes. She stood there for a long while, storm-dreaming of the wreckage that imagination can leave behind.

It had not begun to rain but the heat lightening was furious. That ferocity was barely bridled by the snapping, snarling locks of white hair that flung around her. She was an opera played on the wind- white tangles were the negative spaces between bars of sheet music and her face was the beginning treble clef. She was also a chiaroscuro medusa in the bruise-purple haze of the woods after dusk—wild and ominous like fever-greedy Delphic oracles poisoned on portent and omniscience. The image was captured as an after image in negative just at the corner of the eye. (Look away so you can see the less-bright stars. Don't get lost on the sea.) She was all spirit photography and Victorian séances. But there was no trickery nor witchcraft. And Millicent has never been captured by anything.

She looked like a spectre that stepped out of a more refined but more savage time. The long, white silk of her breasts-to-ground silk dress licked and hissed at her ankles as the rest snapped behind her -- all loyal familiar, wary of a threatening stranger in the form of a lone willow tree. I am no stranger of the willow…

Light struck upon her features, and the angles became vicious. It was a full on assault of this moment in time. She was summoned. The electricity felt like it was gathering around her… Had the storm truly started? No, it was just the light of the phone as she cycled it on. Digital ghost. Your heart only beats ones and O’s. She tapped one of the few contacts she had in her phone. She hid the phone in the tangle of her hair….

The air was so thick, it may have looked like she was an underwater thing. Sea-secrets and a siren.

He didn’t pick up.
Of course.
But the sound of his voice in the voice-mail struck at the center of her like a blow to the solar plexus. (That is not your center of gravity, Millicent.) She couldn’t breathe. She was drowning.
The tentacles of her hair and the edges of her dress rippled like they were hit by a sound wave in the sky, her heart had been its source of origin. (A drip of water in an instant of stillness... and white waves in the silence.)
He broke her sound barrier.

Her voice started as a whisper but it gathered strength. The wind lapped it up greedily but soon it could not overcome the weight and portentousness of the incantation. She recited him a poem.

Quote:
“i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)”
-- e.e. cummings

She closed the phone and slumped to the ground. All the magic left her. She was no longer a medium of the kindly ones. She curled up her knees to her chest and turned her face into the ground. She cradled her features above the dirt by laying her forehead on her forearm. She cried. Her shoulders were wracked with sobbing and the storm covered her with a blanket of hot rain. There, there… The silk of her dress discoloured to something more like cream and sepia as the water was absorbed. (Still photography of bygone eras.) Maybe it was trying to dissolve her like sugar in the bottom of a glass. All that would be left is the absinthe of her eyes…

The tears that ran into the moss of the stream-bank were sucked up into the ground. Venom being sucked from a mortal wound.
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PostPosted: Sat Oct 08, 2016 5:10 pm    Post subject: [Insert Title] Reply with quote

Title:
“Everything all white
And everything’s gray,
Now you’re here, and now you’re away.” – Bush.

It was a perfectly dark, Saturday night and Millicent sat on the floor, surrounded by windows and snow-white silk. She wore a plane white kimono that trumped her form by several sizes. Honestly, it wasn’t hers. It was Lars’. And he had about a foot on her. She imagined he wouldn’t be all that pleased with her borrowing such a thing, but she also knew she had a little leeway in that regard.

So, she had poured herself a glass of almond champagne (a new introduction to her life from last night’s wanderings) and sat on the floor in what she called the tower room. Lars’ house was provincial, particularly German provincial. It had modernized versions of antiquated rooms. These additions were complete with a tower that looked out from an extra two stories onto the well-manicured back yard. This room was … like some viewing room. An antechamber to the staircase that went up another story to the jacuzzi that resided on the top floor of the tower. The structure and the notions it invoked were modern, but romantic. Interestingly, Millicent had never, not once, thought of Lars as romantic. Modern, yes. Harsh. Angular. Sardonic. Laconic. Etc. But not romantic. She had never known him to date, and he was the least social of the regulars that were still around the Club. For the most part, Millicent was certain that Lars mostly preferred the company of his wolfhound, Wintermute. So, Millicent was sitting there imagining him, alone, climbing these stairs in his white kimono, like a deadly spectre, stepping silently but swiftly up the stairs to shed the white for more white (his skin was as light as hers) and dipping into the Jacuzzi, alone. Sometimes she imagined him with a book. She imagined his disheveled raven hair being pushed from his features by his long fingers, whisking the slashes of black away from his arctic coloured gaze before reaching to turn a page. She tried to imagine him leading a woman up those stairs, his hands bookless. What would she look like? Honey coloured locks, coffee skin? No, maybe a mirror of him, black Irish, beautiful with an equally haunting stare. Maybe a woman that smelled like jasmine and bougainvillea and had midnight skin that matched his hair.

Millicent sipped from her champagne flute and leaned against one of the modern windows. She inhaled and exhaled heavily, it was a sigh. She was bored. And she was lonely. Her heart felt heavy in her chest and she started day dreaming of the shores of Uig and Portree, of pale skin and red hair. Her brows furrowed as her eyes focused. She smelled the salt air and tasted the sweet smoke of Talisker on her lips. She could feel fresh shorn wool through her fingers, and the soft silk of his hair. She looked down at the white shell of her phone laying near her on the carpet. Would he answer? “’Ello.”

Would he forgive her? “Where are you?”

Did she even want to be? “I had to.”

Some doors were better left closed. “You were so beautiful…”

Especially if they should never have been opened in the first place. “I can’t…”

Something outside caught her eye. A movement amid the trees. In the house, a quiet alarm began to sing. She saw the glow of a monitor come thundering through the doorway as it came to life. Millicent got to her feet, wrapping her white up in white. She turned back to look outside, and for a moment she thought she saw a face peering back at her. She nearly dropped her glass, it swished and swayed in her hands as she caught her breath and her balance. …It must have been the night glow from the changing light in the room. Maybe a reflection. Hers?

She touched the corner of her eyes with a splay of her fingertips. When she looked out the window again, the pale figure that slid from view behind a bush in the yard was clearly not a figment of her imagination. She crouched down like she could hide. Like she wasn’t an illuminated effigy in a crystal tower for all within the grounds to see. She stayed low, her muscles tense and all of her ready to move – her heart fluttered in her chest (always a bird in a cage, dove). Never removing her eyes from where she last saw the figure, she groped for her phone on the floor. At first she considered calling Jonathan. Instead, she called Eve.

“Eve!”
“Uh. Oh, s**t, Millicent?”
“Eve, someone’s in the yard.”
“Where? Wait, at Lars’?”
“Yes!”
“Did the alarm sound?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“What?”
“He has two. One.. one is .. it’s like a buzzer, the other is like a bleeping.”
“Bleeping.”
“S**t.”
“S**t?!”
“Millicent, he has a saferoom. It’s—“
“Jonathan showed me.”
“Go there.”
“What the f**k is –“
“Later. Go. There’s a phone in there. Call me from it.”
“Eve, I—“
“Go!”

She went.
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Millicent Grim
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PostPosted: Mon Nov 21, 2016 4:20 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Title: "Hear my sinner's prayer. [I am what I am.]. .... The only one I know." -- Lady Gaga.

It was the music that pressed her, it was all over her tonight. In truth, it was why she had wandered out. She wasn't quite in the mood to go dancing, but she was indeed in the mood to surrender to something a little greater than herself. A few of her favorite options for that were ...scarce. Missing. Deviant. Truant. And honestly, that fact left a bit of a hole in her chest-- somewhere where a pulsing, fleshy thing should be beating away. Well, alcohol was a decent second or third choice.

So, it was to the Inn. And after coming in from the chill that was Rhy'Din in deep fall, her white hair blowing in before her like apropos coils of snow, she found herself a favorite bottle of Glenfarclas behind the bar. She palmed the bottle of Scotch and rolled it in her hand to inspect the fill level. The glass was too dark so she placed the bottle on the counter top and leaned forward to get an idea of what she was working with. The firelight from the hearth revealed that the bottle was one fourth full...That wasn't quite acceptable, but it would keep her entertained for most of the evening. From behind the bar, the Scotch thief straightened and slid her gaze over the room. What was to become of this evening?

Making eye contact with the instrument was an experiment in electric gravity. It was like glimpsing a future lover - first sight and chemistry all ablaze. She actually sighed. It started in her diaphragm and ran through her lithe figure, slumping her shoulders at the tail end of the sound. That last reverberation shivered with a note that was comfortable and familiar - I know you, seduction, I know you well. It was a welcome base-note to the top-note of excitement.. It's so strange how that first initial infatuation turns to obligation in that alchemical mess of relationships. And Millicent had a relationship with that piano. Every piano. Platonic Ideals.

But Millicent was mercurial. It was hard to catch the algorithms in her undercurrent and predict what flame or tincture would rise from a crucible containing the white haired singer. She was shameless passion and a creature of the moment-- pure as sugar cane and 24 karat gold. Most fell at her feet due to the indomitable force of nature that resided in just the fact that she was completely undiluted. But when she herself was slave to desire there was always a hurricane. And she could rarely predict its inception or its trajectory.

And there's a storm you're starting now
And there's a storm you're starting
I'm a wanderess
I'm a one night stand
Don't belong to no city
Don't belong to no man
I'm the violence in the pouring rain
I'm a hurricane
I'm a hurricane
I'm a hurricane - Halsey

An askance glance at her bottle told it that it would join her in this soiree. Menage a trois? She asked with a raised brow -- and, since it was, well, you know, alcohol, it agreed. The definition of externalizing behavior. She plucked it up from the bar and let the inertia of fate and destiny carry her over to the piano.

She approached it like a lover, all hip-led and coquettish smiles. She hid them not once, but twice, behind a swig of her Scotch. She lifted her chin to greet the piano like a man who really doesn't give a crap and just wants to get his hands up a skirt for the evening-- that familiar solemn, square jawed and slightly dead eyed regard beneath the faintest lift of brow that belied in-grained patterns of behavior rather than effort. Every woman had seen it a thousand times. The mimicry was the only lighthearted thing she did, and she laughed at herself like it was a private joke.

Millicent pursed her lips as she stepped lightly towards her prey. She prowled and approached silently, stepping one foot in front of the other like a model on a catwalk. Her little sway from the song she had been humming when she walked in began to fall away - a snow angel melting in the heat of the inn and the alcohol in her throat and solar plexus. She smoothed the hem of her corset over her hip, tonight she wore black and it seemed appropriate for the scene of debauchery and coveting. She plucked the steel boning with the side of one of her thumbs like she could play herself like a violin. With a tilt to her smile she ran a fingertip along the seam at her hip. "You like that, baby?" her absinthe coloured eyes asked the piano. It did.

She took her time during her approach. If it had been a man in her bed she would have been pushing clothing off her curves and angles, leaving a trail of black satin detritus in her wake. But it wasn't. And she was in the Inn. She slowly licked her orchid-petal lips as she reached the piano -- stretching out the long moment to the tune of muscle shivering anticipation. Touch me touch me touch me. It's only when I lose myself in someone else.... that I find myself. She ran one of her fingertips over the sloping wood at the side of the keys. Just a tease before she laid her palm over it and stroked the warm, smooth surface.

After she finished kneading the arm of wood with heavy fingers, she pushed that palm over the top of the piano and pet it proper, like a steed. A wild one at that, for she leaned down and decided to speak to it in calming tones. "Easy there... " Mmm, or it was the same man calming an inebriated girl half tipping out of her chair and half way in a dark alley behind a 7-11. Her words dripped honey and laudanum. She gave the instrument a bit of a pat. Loving and authoritative.

Then she dropped a grin in its ivory lap. It was a gesture of false truce. Then she dropped herself ceremoniously into the stool in front of its own toothy grin. She ran her hands down either side of her body to smooth her clothes from the undercurve of her small breasts to the curves of her slight hips. She nuzzled her hips into the stool. There we are.

She raised her piano-player's fingers to stroke lewdly down the grooved wood where sheet music should be. She purred at the instrument and took a swig of her bottle before she committed her first violation of the evening which included placing the wet-bottomed Scotch bottle on the heartwood of the instrument. And she knew it too. "But you'll take that from me, right baby?" said her eyes and she raised a brow at the piano like she expected a retort. Or a struggle. Delicious.

"Let's see..." she murmured to the poor instrument. She tickled a key or two in the higher register. The piano sung a few notes for her- chortling prettily at her command.

Mine.


*Depeche Mode lyrics in here.
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PostPosted: Sun May 20, 2018 8:44 pm    Post subject: Hold your light where I can see it. Reply with quote

** Title by Tool


You know that the coming is so close at hand
You feel all right
I guess only women in cages can stand
This kind of night
I guess only women in cages
Can play down
The things they lose
You think no tomorrow will come
When you lay down
You can't refuse

Will you still have a song to sing
When the razor boy comes
And take your fancy things away
Will you still be singing it
On that cold and windy day
- Razor Boy, Steely Dan

Millicent was humming quietly to herself as she arranged her music books in her studio. She was putting things in order after a furious night of writing. In truth, there was rarely a time when music was not on her mind. The world in her (and that's all worlds are, really) always had a background soundtrack. This one was out of place, though. It wasn't really a band she had intimate relations with, in any way (mind or body), but this particular song had been recommended by an old friend, a long, long time ago, and she was thinking of him fondly.

More explicitly, she was thinking of things he reminded her of, fondly. Here and there she was also thinking about the way his hand felt on her hip, or on her throat. That exhilarating first kiss in a parking lot. How goodbyes that weren't goodbyes held a special place in her shadow box of collected favorite things. She thought of the soft stubble of his chin and his conversations about guilt. About how they had changed. About the constellations of human experience that were software in lieu of the other things, the hardware, that remained stubborn and immutable.

She had not agreed with him. Well, she had. But she didn't believe in being a slave to hardware that wasn't appealing, or wasn't comfortable. Millicent was a force of nature and change. Sometimes they were mutually exclusive, but that's not something to be scrawled out here and explained. They were secret, narrative, divine things that fell somewhere between apocrypha and dues ex machina. He had spoken at length about how his father, a first rate bastard, had made guilt part of his hardware. How he had spent years in therapy trying to unravel the bruises and leylines mapped out by a man jealous of ...well, the world. Experience. She had watched the fates weave for him a saga of self-loathing and self-destruction. I mean, Scorpios. Am I right? But with the words "prodigal son" tattooed on his skin in ink almost anyone could see, they had gone their separate ways. Both her and him, and him and his father. Millicent pursed her lips, worrying that petal-soft and petal-shaped, ashen pink feature between her teeth. When her eyes refocused she had an old guitar in her lap, and she stroked at the strings with the back of her fingers like someone in an old movie would imagine a sultry Spanish guitar player might.

In this revelatory state, Jonathan came in the room.

"Girl...."
"Mmm?"
"You were miles away. I've been calling your name all over this weird churchhousething."
"Oh. Sorry. Was thinking."
"About?"
"A friend."
"Greek ***?"
"N-no. ...Well, I don't think so. No."
"Who?"
"Do you remember ____, he writes plays now."
Jonathan squinted his dark chocolate eyes.
"From when I was little."
"Had that penchant for weird violence? ...Scary music taste, too?"
"Yes. Him." Millicent smiled softly.
"Why were you thinking about him?"
"I dunno. I mean. I guess cause I was talking to him a little while ago. ...I don't know. ***'s weird. I'm in a weird place with everything. Life."
"I mean, I get that. ... like, why do you still live here?"
"I... cause it's perfect." She shrugged.
"Is it though? Is it really?"
"Sad, yes. But perfect, too. And quiet."
"You going to go out any time soon, or do I have to call the mental police?"
"Ah-- I have a date. I plan on going out."
"A date?" wtf face.
"Oh, not like a date-date, just to see an old friend."
"Playboy? Ahaha I like that. Play. Boy."
"No."
"Oh."
"Do you know where my car is, Jon?"
"Ehhhhh...so about that. I think Sickboy ..--"
"***."
"Yeah."
"I think he was mad at you. You know. For leaving."
"Fair."
"Really?"
"Well no, but... I get it."
Jonathan looked at her and picked up a record, smoothing the vinyl with his thumb as he thought.
"So maybe I should get a new one?"
"Yeah. Sure. Neil would be fine with that. I mean, you need a car. What kind would you like?"
"Something black."
"Ah... I meant more than colour."
"Mmm. Something that goes Grrrrrrrr vruuummm."
"Ok, so 8 cylendar."
"I want it to look mean."
"Do you want like super sporty like the TVR or like muscle car?"
"Mmm. Hmm."
"Want to go car shopping?" Jonathan perked up, like a puppy hearing squirrels.
Millicent laughed softly and laid the guitar down. "Yes. Yes, I would."
"Sweet!"




** Credit to an inspirational interaction. Veil crossing.
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