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Love is a battlefieldIts funny how a song, or just an instrumental theme can evoke images, feelings, and tell a tale, even if that tale exists only within the confines of your mind and no one else will ever hear the same story in the same notes.
It starts off with a gentle plucking of a guitar string, perhaps a broken instrument by the sounds of it. It hasn't been played for quite some time, or maybe the musician is long out of practice. His fingers tease the strings as they sing muted notes in reply, shy of being overheard by an unwelcome stranger. There is a certain melancholy to the tune as the chords whine in the stillness of a cold morning. He's a fugitive in his own land, his own country, under the banner of which he once fought and bled.
The covers stir behind him as a veiled form of a young woman stretches in the pale dawning light. Her untamed hair swirls in messy waves over the sheets while her voice and breath summon memories of a night which should have been forgotten.
The strings pick up now,
The CourtesanThe warm midsummer sun barely begun to set over the dusty Parisian streets when a crowd of all those with means and motive flocked to the nearest sites of entertainment. Already, the clanking of hooves and rumble of wheels could be heard against the pavement before the Grand Théatre as carriage after carriage pulled up to its steps, unloading lovely ladies and neatly dressed gentlemen. Some guests arrived alone, others in groups or pairs, but all sported the best form of evening regalia of the early Empire period. Men strut about like peacocks in their colorful waistcoats and revolutionary three piece suits, gallantly offering their arms to elegant women that fluttered at their side like pastel butterflies. Light muslin gowns clung suggestively to feminine curves, delicately framing exposed cleavages and emphasizing the sway of hips as they advanced towards the building's entrance. The entire scene was reminiscent of an ancient assembly in front of a Roman temple as the
Chpt.1 - A Fatal EncounterThe city is different tonight, somehow.
Though to me, it seems different every night; always changing, shifting, and morphing along with the crowd it accommodates. It grows and shifts, lives, breathes, like an ever evolving organism, replacing the old with the new until the new becomes old in its turn. Only I remain the same within it, untouched by the passing of time.
I cannot help but notice the transformations taking place around me as I wonder aimlessly along these streets. I watch on as a handful of workers crawl around a facade of some aged building, trying to restore it to its former glory like a team of plastic surgeons reanimating the past. I wondered why they just don't tear it down like the one on Hertford Road to make room for a modern housing complex or a department store. Last week, a small Cafe opened on Oxford Street and I already miss the bookstore that stood there; I knew the family that owned it for years.
Perhaps I have walked these streets for far
I Belong To You I hate rain. Not really, I love it. Just not when the most beautiful, perfect, wonderful, perfect, comfortable, waterproof, perfect coat in existence has been savagely butchered by my so-called friend’s Dalmatian. Every slap of rain on my naked arms is a stinging reminder of the irreparable hole in my wardrobe.
Some people might try to fill the void with lesser coats but I can’t bring myself to betray Valentino, even after her death. Instead my slippery arms grapple with each other in wet shock as I stumble to the op shop, clinging to one last thread of hope. I know in my deadened heart that I’ll never have another coat like her. Yet here I am, blundering through the elements in my vain search for the acceptance and warmth I found wrapped in Valentino’s woollen sleeves.
Thud. My body slams into the door, making the ‘open’ sign quiver and the bells tinkle in offense. I fight for entry, the door’s assault doubled by the stale funk of
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More