Comfort of the Storm

It was then that the rain began.

It started with a drop or two as the sky rumbled its discontent, the stormy grey clouds quickening above the cobbled streets. Two drops multiplied into four into eight and so on until it erupted into a downpour of misery.

Nothing more than the sniffles, she mused as she counted the cracks of the sidewalk, careful not to step on them. A real storm has anger, passion and violence. A true maelstrom brings danger with it.
A clash of lightning startled behind her and she curved her lips, the water arranging her hair in complex spirals about her shoulders as drops cascaded down her sylvan form.

One, two... her lips formed the words as she continued to count, a crack of thunder shattering the silence. She hummed happily as water dripped off her form and onto the sidewalk.

Macabre can't reach me here, she mused. 

I've found safety in the onslaught of the oncoming storm- It's the one place his shadow cannot exist.

Interlude 1- Mr. Paisley

Mr. Paisley has a beard
which falls below his belt
he never trims or has it sheared
it looks a like a pelt.

He's been known to do his cooking
whilst it drags within the dirt;
he thinks there's choc'late pudding
in his butterscotch dessert.

Interlude 1- Einstein

Einstein woke up with a blink,
said 'Eureka, I've got it!, I think.
If it's more perspiration
and less inspiration
no wonder my limericks stink.'

(originally penned under my alias, Endaphia.)

Interlude 1- Miss Paisley

Miss Paisley wears a pretty dress

without her underwear

Underneath her frilly dress

lay miles and miles of hair

If you were to peek a boo

Miss Paise would cry and hide

If Mr Paisley catches you,

well then you're sure to die.

Hysteria

Her eyelids fluttered as it crawled its way inside her.
Not.. inside, she relented, shifting amongst her satin sheets as a moan escaped her parted lips. One of her legs shifted out of the tangled satin to lie exposed fully to the dark of the night.

She felt it moving again.
With a groan, she shifted her hand to the flat of her belly, the skin shifting under her fingers as her brow furrowed in pain. Small beads of sweat glistened upon her forehead as she threw herself onto her side, pulling her leg back into the mess of sheets as she stared into the dark.

"The animal within them is desirous of procreating children, and when remaining unfruitful-gets discontented and angry," he said, a much and well learned man.

"It moves and convulses, making her dizzy," The second one said.
Her hips rose off her bed in perfect time with her moan of pain, as it travelled deeper, further inside her. She clutched feebly at herself with a needy whimper, helpless against the pain.

"Witch!" hissed the darkness. "Demon!"
 

"She's ill!" argued a man. "the body possesses a power of representing the most hazardous disorders. It's conversion!"
She rolled to her other side in hopes of drowning out the noise.

"Convert or die! We shall hang her! For God would not let harm lie against his own!"
She murmured in soft disbelief as tears rolled down her cheeks. Her coverlet, loosened by the tossing and turning of her tortured soul, surrendered itself to the ground.





-The first saying is taken from Plato.
The second based on Hippocrates.
'Conversion- John Ferriar.

Macabre

It's funny how we disassociate ourselves with blood.. the crimson fluid that flows through us and provides life. Yes, we moreso associate blood.. with death.

She gazed upon the sharp razor held before her on an angle. Mist and tawny dew rained down upon her naked body, as her eyes regarded the silver-steel blade, a simple thing really, but something that could provide.. death.

drops of water gathered upon the instrument, and with the light flooding through her red shower curtain, the water seemed almost crimson.. a fitting thing, she thought, her sensuous lips curved upward.

Slowly, provocatively the blade curved down, touching the softness of her skin, arching upwards as if kissing the curves of her shapely legs..

a slight move could mingle the husky scent of dark blood with the water. It could travel down, and swirl as if not totally approving of the dark drain it is fated to descend.

Her eyelashes popped open, and she peered down to see a petal curve down her leg.

'Thoughtless nymph,' she scolded with mild amusement, as she set the razor ontop of her shelf. She turned off the taps out of habit, and the hiss of water disappeared. Only the mists and a very wet succubus stepped onto the tiled floors, her eyes open and unaware of the mind havoc her Macabre had created.

Slasher

She dreamt of pillows. Pillows tossed in waves upon her mattress, pillows blocking her movement and negating her dreams. Pillows on top of her; down floating through the air as she groaned. Kitten like hands fleetingly push at the soft formless forms, before diving under. Slow, unnamed asphyxiation... by pillows.