Sunday, July 31, 2016

#‎TheCrux‬ ‪#‎Sciencefiction‬ you deserve ‪#‎Dreamcast‬

Elizabeth Gillies as ‪#‎Dolly‬

From #TheCrux

From Chapter 15: Hello Dolly

             Dolly stops about ten yards away. There she stands in all of her grim glory, ax gently swaying alongside her leg, held soundly in a makeshift and stained bandaged hand with nimble ivory fingers. Two more axes, a smaller Hudson and pronounced Broad are suspended behind her, peeking over her sturdy, yet oddly feminine shoulders. She looks us over with her hollow, opal eyes, empty, and void of life. We are a curiosity for the moment, how long that takes to evolve into a threat, remains to be seen, and felt.

                    Her long, pearly opaque hair constricted into a tightly woven braid
lies like a sleeping ivory serpent over right shoulder. It stretches across her voluptuous chest contained firmly within her pastel pink, high collared Quaker-like, button up blouse. In fact, her total ensemble screams Puritan simplicity meets sinister morose. The neatness and order of her upper wear, dramatically contrasted against her tattered, torn and frayed coral colored trousers exposing both of her pale white bony knees and scarred shins. A blush sash wraps around her solid hips multiple times with the remnant dangling down her thigh. She remains motionless in
her bowed and buckled shoes.

                   Yeah, she has an affinity for pink that rivals Sasha’s crimson fetish.

                   It makes her eerie presence even more ghastly if that is at all possible.  Most evidence of the methodic stitching and sewing it took to fashion her morbid singularity is tenaciously concealed by her odd, periodic garb, except what is balefully evident on the milky flesh tightly strained over her skull. Below her vacant stare is a perfectly shaped nose and then blanched lips intricately sewn together preventing any speech. A single line of smaller, finite stitching runs from her hairline down to the right ocular socket. The only variation in the pale hue to her skin is a small diamond patch of peach dermis on her left cheek, another random fragment used to complete her macabre design.

                   She is indeed the result of the Seamstress’ fanaticism, the warped depravity of a mother desperate to satisfy and silence the ghostly wailing of her murdered child. A hellish puzzle put together from the pieces of her massacred quarry that provided the organs and appendages to compose her fiendish form. The spawn of lunacy, offspring of delirium,and a woman-child who has no past or legacy she can ever call her own.  Trapped in a stagnant casing with the tormented memories of the murdered, robbed of the ability to relieve that torture through the simplest acts of screams and tears.

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