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Date Posted: 22:54:05 08/13/03 Wed
Author: Roxie
Subject: .With the right song and dance you can get away with murder.

Murder.

Grayscale vapors hung in ominous menagerie, sky rapidly blackening with the sentiment of hushed anticipation. She was a tuft; a phantom—a slinking slut with the grace and debonair no easier enclosed than a beam of sunlight or random cast of wind. She wafted amid the shoots and arbors with a glint of skin and a spot of scintillation. She was erotic, presence erratic—but all of that was about to change.

Greed.

The pall ascended, then descended again as the path of a pallid, looming moon, revealing a cast scenario of Roxie and Big Brother’s cordialities. She gave a smirk, a flick of her cigarette, and soon there were rough hands, pushing Brother down the steps and Roxie up another--perhaps it wasn't meant to be. It was her time, her glorious time of sultry seduction and song and sanctimony.

Corruption.

The illumination was dimmed; Brother was shooed out the door and round the facade of the intricate theatre. Coughs were erratic; seats squeaked on juncture, the excited bustle of a whisper suddenly hushed as the trumpet player raised his brassy instrument and began the blaring solo. Drums were soon to follow, and the piano player began beating the keys with ferocity apparent on his sweating features. Through the floor she rose metaphorically, each body part articulately designed.

Violence.

Her face was articulate and sultry—her cheekbones high, complexion flawless, lips red. Dark eyelashes swarmed with enigmatic eye shadow, casting a look of sensual uncertainty. An elongated neck and form, resembling something like that of a ballet dancer, lead to wanton collar bones and a well endowed chest spewing from a sequined attire, nothing but strips and strings. Her hips curved graciously inward, than outward again, down long, muscled thighs and seductive legs to her feet, jammed into unbelievably tall heels in which she danced with insurmountable grace. Her skin was lightly sun kissed—not dark, but enough not to be left pallid. But in the equine form, oh in the equine form.

Exploitation.

She was stretched and supple, like velvet stretched over coils of muscle and wire. She was intricately carved from the very crackling fire—and her eyes still shone of it alight. Her mane was laid in stippled tresses, often astray from perspiration. She was exquisitely sculpted, never a form she couldn’t seduce, beguile, or manipulate.

Adultery.

Through the miasma of her cigarette the lands seemed to fade back to the more perpetual reality, and a flashy figure sunk from the depths of the grayed flesh of trees. She was ostentatious, moving out of the woods with a grandiose control of her poised legs—each muscled thickly with long years of diligent training. They arched and bowed, buckled and slid with a grace only comparable to the agility of a feline. Left hoof came to graze the right knee—from there a leap, a buck, a duck…she slid up and down with unnatural composure. But always that brazen, flamboyant look in her eyes—always that sultry smile on her lips. R O X I E wasn’t good news.


Temptation.

"Can I stay?"

She uttered, not as a question but as a cracking answer, followed by a smirk as the last of the smoke curled from her lip. This was no longer her phantasmal description of the harlot simulation predeceasing—this was reality, babe.


And all that jazz.

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