The Red Ribbon

The vibrant colors stained the empty canvas guided by the stern and rigid brushstrokes from Anne Ling’s graceful hand. The frown on her face echoed the frustration at her latest work. She was so close to finally producing the perfect painting for the Annual Art Contest. The previous pieces she had done throughout the year hung silently on the walls of her atelier, which was located in the most expensive and popular part of the Main Street in the city of Oatsbury. She was a state-renowned artist with a year’s long backlog of commissions to finish, yet this piece was more import. It was supposed to be the Magnum Opus of her 25 years long career. As a woman of 45 years, she was still considered attractive by many men, and she caught men 15 years her junior checking her out with a glint in their eyes. Interestingly enough, her aloof demeanor and absolute dedication to her work left little room for men – especially after Ferdinand left her, taking their daughter with him, some 9 years ago. Continue reading

The Mindtouch

Jay’s obsidian eyes stared judgingly at the gray scenery beyond the window. The street was oversaturated with blinking lights and other Christmas decorations. The mood outside was generally festive but there was an indescribable coldness in the air that chilled her core. The coldness without reflected the listlessness within. Her pale visage looked like it has been cut in marble, aloof and uncaring, yet radiating with the beauty of the artisan’s masterful craftsmanship. To the unsuspecting eye, she could be mistaken for a statue bar her calculating, piercing glare and vibrant long black hair which fell softly down her shoulders and covered the most of her pale, naked breasts.  Her breath misted the window through which she was watching the passing of people, each and every one of them drowning in their own loneliness, unwilling to reach out beyond the established routine. It was in part of their coldness that Jay’s heart grew cold itself, and she felt herself withdrawing, becoming one of them – the soulless ones, the simple ones. The spark of liveliness dwindling with each passing moment. The number 30 was crudely smeared on the glass and with each breath, its texture became more distinct.  Her obsidian eyes narrowed.

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Amber Kiss – Pledge in the Winter Palace

In the eerie soundless night, I find myself walking the endless halls of the grandiose palace. My footsteps echo dully and their sound is soon lost resounding from the magnificent walls restored to their former glory, when Kings and Queens far greater than myself walked these corridors. I feel my heart pounding at the prospect of meeting her, in this realm where time and space hold no meaning. I enter the lavish bedroom, greeted by a cold breeze coming from the slightly open window to the north. Even though I do not see her, I can feel her presence all around me. The intoxicating aroma, never before smelled, awakens sensations never before felt. However, I know all too well that this is just her ploy to entice me, a way for her to toy with her wayward plaything. The gentle sound of an old violin reaches my ears and I lose myself in that nondescript tune on a cold winter’s night for a time. The humming follows soon afterward, that infernal calling that stirs my soul and makes me shudder. I open my eyes and there she was, standing at the threshold of the room. I brace myself for what’s to come. I wait for her to come and play her wicked game upon my weary mind and soul. Tap, tap, tap, her graceful stride echoes lightly and I feel my body betraying my will. Even though I cannot discern any physical details due to the shining light emanating from her aura, I recognize that walk and feel the icy lump in my throat choking me softly. She giggles as she approaches amused by my discomfort her blinding aura receding with each consecutive step. I feel her mind-touch as she sifts through my thoughts, pains, lusts and desires with the carelessness of a child sifting through sand. I do not resist it, since she is the undisputed ruler of this non-space.

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