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The Wooden Forms and the Archangel
Kindling the torches and she screamed, Smithson ignited the firestorm the flames licked the wood and ate into it. Enthralled and the flares leapt in the air we perused. Dancing around the conflagration it was exciting I was privileged to have Smithson dance with me.
Mariel quailed I viewed her through a magnifying glass, the teeth were yellow hideous, and Mariel's eyelids flitted. The tongs were in the fire, I removed the tool from the combustion, and I was poised. Lifting the tongs high, I poetically patterned my speech, and I sang the song of the insane.
“You chose well,” the Presenter said.
The faces of the black-angels were grotesque. Discharging a yowl, she closed her mouth, I brought the apparatus down, and I was motivated by Mariel's dissidence. Exhibited on the slab the sword, the flames glimmered on the metal. Prizing Mariel’s oral cavity open and I clamped the hot tongs onto her teeth. Thirsting for the gore the Woodlanders orbited. Wrenching the teeth from the gum Mariel yelped and her mouth bled.
“Can I have the tongs?”
Snatching the contrivance, Smithson held the tongs in the flares, when they were hot, he squashed her tongue, twisting the thick flesh, Smithson's enjoyment was intensified by the tortured sound, and the ricochet from her guttural noise rebounded. Jerking it, the tongue came away, and Smithson cast it onto the ground stamped on it. Mariel’s skull juddered, the red-fluid discharged from her mouth, I thrust a heavy cloth into Mariel’s oral cavity. Dancing in perfect amalgamation and Mariel twisted on the altar her sight-orbs looked frightened.
“This is some reparation for your sins, but before you die there will be much more,” I said.
“We will make certain of it,” Smithson replied.
The Pit Stop
Rhea was in the gas station and her boots crunched on the metal steps, the ice on her footwear was melting.
“Baby,” she said.
She lolled on my lap and the odor of the liquor oozed from the pores, Rhea’s breath stank it repelled. Perry stared it was filled with hatred and longing.
“What is the problem?” Rhea asked.
“You just are.”
Rhea pulled out a death-stick and she was ready to light it, but I pulled the cigarette from her lips. Yanking Rhea down the steps and into the yard, she draped around my body.
“Please shag me?”
“Why should I bone you? You disgust me.”
She grabbed a bottle of wine she had stashed and drained it. Rheanna stumbled into the workshop and up the steps, I followed, Perry was not impressed, when she stumbled onto the desk, and blacked out.
“I am leaving now do not touch Rheanna,” I said.
The Woodlander Warriors and the Darkest-One
Mariel strived to move, but the chains stopped her. Lounging beside the flaming voracity, swallowing liquor, we chinked our glasses. The flames burned steadily, I wrote the Journal, my son was peaceful, and he reposed against the Tree. Worshiping the Timber Figures and the Archangel, we sang and danced.
“Proceed,” the Declarer said.
Converging at the altar, Smithson confiscated the compacted material from her lips, Mariel wept, the sounds she discharged from her throat, undecipherable, husky and multi-layered.
“Your death is imminent,” I said.
Supercilious above Mariel, Smithson waved the mallet, cracking her bones, she screamed, and his robust frame bent to Marilee, she screeched some more.
“We will rip your heart from your body and hold it in our hands. We will burn you until you are nothing more than residue, and we will purge the higher realm from your womanly secretions,” Smithson said.
Cutting into her skin, I separated the flesh. Parting her ribs and Mariel’s heart was revealed she lost consciousness. Pouring water over her Mariel revived. Smithson cleansed Mariel’s honeyed-place and he enjoyed his task.
“You are truly the one father.”
Mariel’s heart pulsated and I tore it from her body, I arranged it on the palm of my hand, it continued to beat, twitching from the shock of the physical attack, her body jerked.