Victor Hugo died today . . . God bless.
Ron Morelli



She fell into his arms without another thought passing through her head. Atticus stood there, catching her, and cradling her. He looked passively down upon her face; her head arched back and her snowy throat exposed. He wondered if she had meant to do this to him, as the ultimate means of primal seduction, but quickly nixed the notion as merely a coincidence.

Quickly, he scooped her up like a baby, lulling her head towards the center of his chest as her arms fell free, fingertips dipping daintily into the air. She seemed the angelic one now to him. Where she could not resist his looks, he could not resist her looks now. How splendid she did seem to him in slumber unlike most other faces. Her lips were so flushed with blood; her pretty eyes closed and fluttering beneath thin eyelids.

He cupped her chin, and huddled with her into the corner of the room, and as he rested her against him, he thought of the dead, and their deeds, and all the pretty fallen mulberry leaves outside the kitchen door. With a wink, and a slight boo he grasped her thin veined wrists one, and then two; and without a word needing to be said, he kissed her sweetly, as she bled.


First published: August 2001
comments: knobs@iceflow.com