There is a hole in the wall. I don’t always see it, blinded by the sunlight from the window, but when you move, the light moving with you, I see that the hole is there – behind you, hidden, in the wall. For what it’s worth; do you see it, too?
It felt similar to tearing out a piece of hair by its root. That was when she realized the plants were growing from her body – not on it. Whilst asleep, she had become a human flowerbed. She feared she would vomit right there, on the bathroom floor, seeds and chlorophyll galore.
His hair drew me to him, so curly and so soft. You don’t suspect something like that to turn on you – why would you? – which is why I never felt the curls worming their way into my heart until the day that they hardened, becoming screws, drilling me to pieces.
She had the eyes of a snake; eerily yellow and with a vertical slit. Sometimes, if the sunlight hit from the proper angle, the color of her skin would turn sheer, almost translucent, like the cast off slough of a sister snake.
Please… why am I the guilty one here?
In precisely three hours, at two in the morning on the 6th of January, he would no longer be the person that he had been his whole life – and maybe, the voice said in his ear, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, what with the amount of blood he had on his hands.
The note in her hand didn’t glow rays of golden light, nor did it emit the scent of everything good in the universe. It had no beautiful calligraphy, no seal, and no instant redemption jumping up at you from the paper – which was fine, really, because when had a divorce ever been golden?
Their skin is a sick shade of ivory, and their bodies so thin that you just know they can bend muscles that you don’t have. Skin to blame, their lips are permanently violet. Nails, too. Not eyes; those are pearly white.
They bleed blue, she once said…
… I now agree.
The dim light from above fell on his face in a way that bronzed and honeyed his already warm, glowing skin. I wanted to reach across the table and touch it, just to see if it was as scalding hot as it looked, but what if it was?
In old lore, necromancy is the craft of raising the dead. I don’t wander cemeteries in the dead of night, raising corpses from their graves, but you may call me a necromancer of modern times; death draws me in. It’s why I, like now, often find myself in, let’s say, dire straits?