Lave is walking through the market when someone fails to kill her.read more
Beatrice sniffs the air uneasily, unsure of herself in a way that she once vowed she would never be. Something has changed, something has shifted within her home's generous confines, and she hasn't the slightest idea what. An absence in the air; a lack of smell and noise.
"Cinnamon," she calls, "I need your eyes."read more
She wanders into the kitchen midway through your preparations, drawn by the warm scents of cooking meet and browning bread and your heartbeat's happy rhythm. You tug the blackout curtain closed as she does, walling out sunset's last beams before they can touch her grey skin.
"Hey!" you cheerfully greet her sleep-mussed hair and hollow eyes, "do you want some coffee? It'll be ready in a minute."
She grumbles at you and shakes her head; not a surprise, since things like her don't really need to eat, but you like to offer anyway.read more
Each day you walk past the dollmaker's store, past those wide glass windows full of carefully constructed cages. They almost look like they're not cages at all, just dollhouses, but you know better: you've spent enough time watching to notice the bars.
The dolls gambol and dance, climb their furniture and nestle in little display cases almost like they weren't alive at all; sometimes you even pass by as they're having a tea party, a matched set drinking in unison.
Every few weeks one or two of the cages sit empty.read more
With the click of a button the room fills with the mournful sounds of a funerary dirge, a piano's mournful notes weaving through droning prayers and grief-filled tears. The music drips down the cold stone walls and across the marble slab—
"Ugh, it's so cold in here ..."
The body on the slab shifts just enough to stare at its companion. She's shivering in a lacy black dress and mourning veil, nipples hard and skin goosebumped.
"It's a crypt. Of course it's cold."read more
They say that light hangs timeless in an eternal now.
They say that each glimmer of starlight is a glimpse of grace; that heaven lurks among those twinkling pinpricks and only light will ever be truly saved, in that eternity lingering between emission and absorption.
It's obvious if you have the nose to smell it. Few do, and fewer bother.read more
“Did you know,” she says, “that the average person can endure less than five minutes of direct exposure to Her before their timeline is completely overwritten?”
You, bound and gagged on the floor of the temple's airlock, can only nod in response. Everyone knows that.
She grins at you. “Unintelligent matter is rewritten faster, of course, and living wood endures surprisingly well—that's why your rebellion was so excited when they found the asteroid forest, right? Sucks for you that we got here first.”read more
Fleeting waves of mirage haze sleeting across my eyes like rot's reeking spore, each flexing the world's bounds further still—walls bow against absent pressure and cracks grow into gaping doors, and all the while the shimmering gem of aura's heart eats and eats and eats—
That brightly lit not-mouth, an angel dancing at the center of my vision; it's odd how similar a mouth and a wing and an eye can look, you know, how feathers are just teeth seen by someone who's still waiting to be taught how to be a victim.
Angels eat just the same.read more
"Mommy!" You cry as she's just about to walk out the door, "I want to go worship with you!"
Her scarred flesh wrinkles into a smile as she laboriously reaches down to ruffle your hair.
"Not until you're older, dear heart."
"But why? I'm a big girl now!"read more