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“He just shook his head and let his smile grow bigger. There was something about her that made him feel like his heart was bouncing on a pogo stick.”
― Mr. Wicker
― Mr. Wicker
“A window smoky with lavender twilight arched over a desk littered with books and weeping columns of burning wax. Over the desk hunched a sooty-headed character. The scratching paused as he dipped a quill into an inkwell that sat beside an old-fashioned black telephone with large finger holes for dialing.”
― Mr. Wicker
― Mr. Wicker
“Brooding at his antiquated desk in the lavender twilight of eternity, Mr. Wicker recalled the unspeakable delicacy of Alicia’s skin as he’d inhaled the fragrance of blood on her slashed wrists.”
― Mr. Wicker
― Mr. Wicker
“As Aristotle once said: Damn, my head hurts! And where am I?
Okay, maybe he didn't say that.”
― Snowblind
Okay, maybe he didn't say that.”
― Snowblind
“He opened Alicia’s book on the desk. Golden fairy tale calligraphy. Sooty cover. His desire for her rose like broken glass in his throat, a thousand gashes in his lungs as he inhaled the ink, which warbled a sweet song of anguish, a lament of two female voices echoing through the rafters. Mr. Wicker often marveled at how human beings are both alive and dead, suffering an incomplete death over the lifetime. Death tainted the flesh to serve this odd communion of opposites. The bitter soup of the soul. The hardened crust of the body. Oh, how he could devour her, soup and crust.”
― Mr. Wicker
― Mr. Wicker






