Link to Paragraph Seven: http://m-a-w-h.blogspot.com/2012/01/blog-tag-1-para-07.html
Tamara Mourning stared down at the white, open-toed, high-heeled shoes that encased her dainty, painted toes. She loved the dress, adored the hair, and there was no doubt that this was a great body; if a little overly feminine. The shoes though… Her feet were killing her, and she longed for a pair of boots, a good pair of kicking boots with a long steel-bladed knife nestling deep inside them somewhere. In normal circumstance this would not have been a problem. She’d simply have stepped into the Slip for a moment and made the shift. In normal circumstances she could have any type of footwear she chose; body too. She thought back to the ship and Max; remembering his face when she’d burst through the door, slightly dishevelled and a little unkempt but apart from that his exact double. It was a game they’d been playing for years, centuries even. The aim was to catch the other unawares, get them to react in some way: “Max! Whatever you do, you’ve got to get off this ship!” she’d said. He hadn’t though, he didn’t need to. Instead he’d spat at her like he always did and then flew off in a huff. What was it? Surely he didn’t think that she had any part in that silly, chain-smoking girl’s death? He should know her better than that by now. Armageddon… yes; but a pointless killing here, a little murder there – well, like these damned shoes, it wasn’t really her style. No, that had all been down to Frankie, it was just his style. For a crooner, he never really had much imagination; and as for that violin player boyfriend of his… well. How they had ever been tolerated in the Band was beyond her, they were strictly second rate. Tin Pan Alley hound-dog players, not even good for the borderlands. Now Max – well, Max was altogether a different proposition. He could play the blood from your veins, the sweat from your pores and the sex from the more intimate parts of your body. When Max played everyone listened. Max played and everything was possible. God, she needed to lose these shoes, and this body wasn’t right for whatever beating she knew was coming. Conversation? She didn’t think so. Frankie didn’t do conversation. Frankie really only spoke with his fists and prick – and then in grunts - the rest was just empty words. They were all around her now; Frankie and his band of filthy, sycophantic tulpa-forms. They’d made a circle and were closing in. She who would be the One shivered; just how had he taken the Slip from her? Tamara strained her pearl-buttoned ears. Damn these shoes, damn Frankie, but most of all damn that damn, damned Max. Far in the distance the drumming of hooves… and they were getting louder by the moment.
Thanks again go to akh there.
Link to Paragraph Nine: http://m-a-w-h.blogspot.com/2012/01/blog-tag-1-para-09.html
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