I looked around the room, wondering how I'd found myself in this strange place Who were these people? And what were they doing in my lounge? "Your glass is empty. There's plenty of wine over on the table - help yourself!" she smiled hospitably. "Don't you have any light? I used to drink light..."
Suddenly, I noticed a darkness slowly stealing over the room (or, more correctly, an awareness of it stole over me). Quietly as a thieving priest, I waltzed out of the lounge and into the kitchen. The light was brighter there... A sandwich. I needed a sandwich. I took four slices of bread and arranged some sliced chicken breast from the fridge upon two of them. I lathered mayonaise on the other two, but suddenly thought, "what if she wants one? She's a vegan! she can't eat mayonaise!" I took a fresh slice of bread to complete the second sandwich.
Closing the refridgerator door, I noticed it was there. A lynx-pinemartin cross, black pelt with black stripes, inferno eyes that could take the soul of a better man than me. I quietly thanked my former self for not being a better man, and took up the sandwiches. But still it wanted something. A lightless butterfly, it jumped around the room, flapping, tiny but immense. I ran down the hall to my bedroom.
Slamming the door behind me I lent against it, catching my breath; seconds passed, then it thumped on the door, crashing against it near the top, pushing it half a foot open. On the third push it burst into the room, and the door fell hard, and still, closed. Small and dark as iron-sand on velvet , its wings beat hummingbird-fast, but at the same time blurred and trailed like slowed down film; yet it flitted, mosquito mad, never seeming to be in the right place.
I needed to escape. If I could just go to sleep, maybe I could find some light. I jumped into bed, and pulled the covers up, over my shoulder... As it blurred around my face, I closed my eyes loose. Time slowed. It lolloped around with a vengeance, not leaving me. Yet slowly unconsciousness collapsed upon me. And I fell into the strangest dreams.
(This is an imported feed item. You can read the original item at http://volponeprofane.livejournal.com/5075.html)
One finger at a time... just reach for the next hold... It wasn't going to be too hard! She's come this far!!! Every single muscle aches and burns, but she can see the sun shattering over the crest of the cliff already... Just keep moving... So close to the top... the light falling and filtering over almost breaks her eyes, but it's so close... just one more... hang on... oh, cripe, it's slipping. Is that even a rock?
(This is an imported feed item. You can read the original item at http://volponeprofane.livejournal.com/4798.html)
Back in the old days, when the ocean was red and the sky, there was a girl who liked to play by the sea. Her father always warned her against the wolfrays, those hungry anxious beasties that would ride in on the surf and skittle thirstily along the beach for the blue, human blood across the sands. The stories just made her want to see one more. She'd play relentlessly on the shores, hoping to cut herself on a shell, so she could trail her luring track along the coast. Maybe she could catch one, if she were patient enough!
One day she gave up hope. She stopped visiting the beach, and settled into an indoor life. The red sky that had worshipped her so barely saw her again... Its sorrow overwhelmed it, turning it to a gentle, melancholic blue... The sea merely mirrored in sympathy...
(This is an imported feed item. You can read the original item at http://volponeprofane.livejournal.com/4560.html)
It's dark outside tonight, even underneath the lampposts... The air is thick and muddy, as if a swamp decided to take to the breeze. You feel you have to grit your teeth to keep from choking... (This is an imported feed item. You can read the original item at http://volponeprofane.livejournal.com/543.html)
The young girl stands by the swingset, carefully cutting the hands, ears and feet off the stuffed animals that hang from it. She says they want her to set them free. Just around the corner are graves of children that died this day, every 50 years since the reformation... (This is an imported feed item. You can read the original item at http://volponeprofane.livejournal.com/790.html)