Dance of the Paper Dolls (Pt 3)

         <Pt 2

          “What are you?” she asked.  “Why are you doing this?”

          “Just the natural order of things, sweetness,” said the dark-haired girl.  “We had to make sure Genesis hadn’t killed you, or we’d have had to punish her, but now that we know you’re alright, we can get on with the party.”

          “Party?”  She was still groggy, her mind still slowly coming awake.  “I don’t… want a party…”

          The girl laughed—it was like ice and glass, hatefully biting.

          “Sure you do.  Colt’s been waiting ages for you to come along and play, haven’t you, Colt?”

          “Sure have,” the male agreed.  “But it’s all right, Cleo… let her catch her breath.”

          He smoothed back her hair; her shoulders relaxed a little.  Devilish as he looked, he seemed gentle.

          “There now.  You are pretty… no wonder our little puppy likes you so much.”

Dance of the Paper Dolls (Pt 2)

 <Pt 1

 

           She went to the window and poked her head out.  They were there, just as she’d imagined them: Darry in the same shirt and jeans—they were even dirtier now—and Genesis, standing behind him, her hands clasped demurely behind her back and her face upturned with a knowing, winking smile.

           Thankfully, though, no fangs.  And she wasn’t wearing that red kimono… just jeans, Doc Marten boots and a violet, laced-up-the-front corset top.  Her hair was pale blonde, but it wasn’t white.

           Maybe, Winnie thought to herself.  Maybe I am overreacting.

           Maybe I am a little jealous.

Dance of the Paper Dolls (Pt 1)

Darry had missed classes for over a week; she’d left him message after message on his cell phone and hadn’t gotten so much as a text in return.  Winnie was just about to contact the police to make a missing person’s report—something she knew she should have done from the beginning—when, amazingly… he returned.

She caught sight of him from across the student union—he was sitting in the teal nylon sofa chair he always sat in, waiting for her as if he’d never left.  A rush of sudden excitement filled her and she picked up her pace to join him, practically dropping her tray of food as she did; as she got closer, though, she realized how strange… how incredibly different… he looked.

Into the Dollhouse (Pt 2)

<Pt 1

Colt reminded Darry of a boy he’d taken theater classes with in high school: he was lean but muscled, catlike almost, and probably agile and wiry.  There was only one word for this young  man’s face, though: beautiful.  He had an almost royal countenance, gorgeous hazel eyes and lovely, pouty lips.  He was sitting lazily on an uncovered sofa when Genesis led naked Darry into one of the musty upstairs rooms, where the sheets had been pulled off of the furniture, and the shades thrown open to let in the sparkling, bright moonlight.

Colt was a lovely man, but it was Cleo—his sister—that immediately drew Darry’s eyes.  She was even prettier than Genesis, with long, shapely legs and smooth, delicious hips.  Her elegant but low-cut gray blouse showed off the curves of her gorgeous breasts, and her long, dark hair fell in a cascading wave down to the small of her back.  When Genesis and Darry entered, she turned away from a musing study on the night sky, and Darry noticed a lithe dancer’s grace accented even her slightest movement.

Into the Dollhouse (Pt 1)

 Guess what? I write sequels.

The days were filled with desperate, wild sex, passionate and indulgent, more than he had ever thought he could take or give.  And yet, each time his beautiful Genesis reached for him across the cool, quiet darkness, silently beckoning to him and whispering sweet, lustful promises into his ear, Darry found himself ready, burning with a fever to consume her and bury himself in her, over and over.

He was losing weight—he was never hungry, except for her.  He was missing classes, he hadn’t spoken to his friends or even his family.

And it didn’t matter, as long as she was there.

The Gothic Doll (Pt 3)

The sidewalks were silent, mostly abandoned, as he followed his little gothic doll back to her home.  It was just the two of them, walking quietly, and—to his strange surprise—saying nothing.  She led, he chased; she glanced up from under her dark lashes and flashed him a smile, like a lady leading a puppy, and he trotted obediently at her heels.  It was a clear night, but there was no moon, leaving only the streetlamps to cast their pools of light along the path.

Her hair was so fine and pale; he thought it must be soft, like long strands of spider’s silk.  Without realizing he was doing it, he reached out to catch a few strands drifting in the breeze—and Genesis ducked away, spinning to face him.

At first he thought she must be angry, but she was smiling again, a sweet little smile, like dusted sugar.  They had stopped between the streetlamps; in the slanted darkness he thought she looked very, very pale, almost white.

“Darry,” she said quietly.  “Do you want to touch me so badly?”

The Gothic Doll (Pt 2)

He’d brought his own portfolio along to the coffee shop, like he did every night there was a poetry reading, and he’d hoped his mystery girl would be there to hear some of his original work.  When she wasn’t, his heart fell, and he almost turned down his chance to read altogether.  There had been members of his literature classes there, though, who urged him on, and Winnie, too—taking to heart what he’d said about being best friends, obviously, as she gently nudged him up towards the stage.

“Fine,” he muttered at her, shoving his portfolio into her hands and picking up his anthology of British Literature instead.  He’d read William Blake: the Romantic writer was the current subject of study in his English course and the poems he was analyzing for that were short and sweet.

Of course, the moment he read the title of the first piece he meant to read, she entered the room.  He caught sight of her just as she slipped in the door, not even tinkling the little bell above it, and he fumbled over the title.  Her pretty eyes flickered up to him—shy and plaintive, just as they were in the dreams he’d been having of her—and she slipped unnoticed into the corner, quietly taking a seat to listen.

The Gothic Doll (Pt 1)

It all started innocently enough: she appeared in the campus coffee shop, a quiet, fair-haired girl, a little gothic doll.  She wore lipstick the color of a red rose’s deepest petals, her gray eyes framed by dark lashes and silver, smoky eyeshadow.  She held back her hair with a black headband decorated by the skull-and-crossbones symbol of poison, and her off-the-shoulder black blouse showed the tattoo of a Chinese dragon winding around her right shoulder.  She sat in the corner, sinking quietly into the cushions of one of the sofas to watch the readers with silent interest.

Darren first noticed her during one of his poems, her head tilted slightly to the side as she listened, fingering the heavy pewter pendant around her throat.  She was instantly captivating: dark and elegant, beautiful in a way he might never have expected.  He wrote poetry, studied it; she was poetry, a lonesome and mournful verse like something out of Dickinson.  Why had he never seen such a fascinating creature as this before?