Thrust





Head space collapsed, turrets beckoning to me on their gutter breeze.

I felt the purring whine of heroine victory, singing sugar notes as promises split through my fingers, fragmented iridescence. Milky film sloughed from my eyes for a melting instant, my brain barren and unfiltered.

And then solidified, a laced cap of white knights and dragons.

I had won.

You were conquered, Lord of Illusions. By my words. By my truth.

Good always triumphed, Goblin King.

Salty warmth bristled through my veins, bubbling exultation and hot justice. A sweet adventure rush.

In the recesses of my thoughts, a silken breath kissed softly, ashen tendrils caressing.

I swept it back into the cobwebbed corners, out of mental sight, as you flew into the dark.

Better luck next time.



Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

My chest rose and fell, heart pumping, brain racking candy corn dreams -

-and then the patterns crossed and shifted, streamed with whispered cobwebs. Black and fade, it's time to play - or won't you join the dance? Ebony silk sluiced over my skin, a hooked caress waiting, insidious in its demand.

Waiting for me. For my petal-pressed consent.

The silence hung, swirled, contracted-

-and ebony fingers began their wickedly tender exploration, a talon edge ripping apertures in carefully calculated strokes. Red, churning mist seeped, crackling with suppressed thunder, ululating viscerally.
The ebony silk molded, clenching, suffocating. Silver to my wrists and silence to my lips.

I would never touch my unicorns again.



Crumble, crumble, and fall.

My gleaming determination is coated with cold reality grime, oxidizing in maturity waves, somnambulant. The cherry blush has withered and the walls are cracking, powdered into silent ash. Sweet façade, I knew thee well.

Golden laughter serves me with its hangman?s caress, its shining cavity of blades. I am becoming a connoisseur of sharpness, of the darted thought and the jagged dream.

Such things don?t belong to the fallen. They will not.

Frothing desperation seeps, with the stoning venom beneath the skin, my mirrored manacle. I have no spirit touch for this and my ego splay can hold for only so long.
But it will be long enough.

I will win at this new game, this match stick of sulfur rules.

That is what heroines do.


Glittering in ashes, my dreams, their virgin silk and porcelain certainty lying in pieces. Brittle.

My lip trembles in violence, bitten thoughts and silence, acid bleeding through gray cell webbery.

Too, too careless, of slipping flowered serpent fingers. The fingers that caress, the eyes that bind. The heart that hammers its thready panic in leaps and throbs.

And the voice that laughs, rapacious in its golden ravage. Sweet gentility of the watcher, nestled between these treacherous fingers.

And the crystal, if you touch it...

Ebony silk covers the fragments, swept now to the cobwebbed corners, those recesses of ink and stain.

My city lies in dust, its fevered gold naked and ripe.



Blades, thou art my friends - a more harmless denizen of shining sharpness than the rasping, ghost-fed voices with their butter-cuts and rose-apples. You slice my flesh, my purveyor, my bargaining chip of parlayed entry. One degree of flight.

Sensation is my play-thing, a five-ringed inquiry behind asbestos drudgery. And the guards do stand so firm, tight and slashing-still. White-collared remnants with their tattered pride.

A purring growl liquifies my quivering bonds, my diaphanous, shredded sugar sweetness. The leather straps only hold so much - ebony silk shadows the rest into crimson and quicksilver.

And I recognize the golden tones for what they are. Dulcet addiction of satin kisses and the gloved caress, cloven scents, and the lascivious luster of the killing dance. If only I could summon my unicorns - but they're long disintegrated, ragged wheels of bone with hollow eyes.

And my prince rides the cool, cyanide susurrations of the night, his price an impaled memory and a pound of flesh.



Red droplets in my chalice now, with their electric humming. My offering, my body, my blood. Mine. And the iron clarity lodging so deep, beneath the pale scar - the numbing cool of liquid nitrogen kissing through that ebony-draped mind, that plundered chapel. Oh yes, mine.

And with such an invitation, indeed. You do learn so well.

Golden laughter steals silently through me. This does call for a celebration, little girl.

A crimson explosion, dazzling fire of sensation spilling, surging in crests of sparking, streaking silver. Membranous whispers echo before dissolution, a tabernacle of tendon and muscle.

And all the rest is stillness.

So very well, you learn, now on a hedged path of ebon-gray.



The ebony cascades, the card house falls with its marrow powdered to ash. And the ebony collects the pieces, wrapping tighter, closer, that seditious phantom touch woven with soft, gleaming laughter like molten gold.

And the castle lies still at the center.








To Stiletto to see the other point of view or back to the Labyrinth page with you.