Breaking InA small, domestic bathroom. TIM, a young and unimposing man, is unconscious on the floor, leaning against the bath, hands and wrists tied, a bloody wound on his forehead. He starts to wake up, looks around, and then realises his predicament.Breaking In6 years ago in Screenplay More Like This
Hey! (Pause.) HEEEEEEEY!
The door opens. KAREN, a young woman, enters. She has a necklace in her hand, which she clutches throughout the scene. She looks at TIM, aggressive and defiant.
You shouldnt have done that. It was really dangerous.
Ive called the police.
I thought you probably had. I mean, youve got me now. But I just wanted to say next time, I wouldnt tackle them like that. You might not have been so lucky.
Right, because youre so tough. Anyway, I was
Heart of StoneIf she had her way, she would slaughter every one of them.Heart of Stone6 years ago in Ultimate Fanfiction More Like This
"Look at her hair! What a horrendous color! Do you even brush it? I bet the King pays him to look at you."
"You can tell her father has no money, that dress would be a rag in my house!" The tallest one grabbed the end of Morgana's sash and she heard the thin fabric tear as she pulled away.
"Pity your mother died so young. I am sure even with her base manners she would've made you into something like a lady."
Children are keen to the weakness of their peers and their precise attacks can be brutal on the psyche. At seven, Morgana was privy to the daily taunts and leers by jealous daughters of dukes and marquises. When their beloved fathers were diligent in their noble work, they relished in the embittered tears flowing down Morgana's cheeks. Her fists remained ivory weights at the end of her arms, clenched quivering with the preservation of her reputation. She would never take the bait of their indignity. She would nev
I'll meet her again...Its Samhain. The line between the spiritI'll meet her again...6 years ago in Sestina-ween More Like This
world and our own is a ray of moonlight.
Its the night when the reluctant soul sticks
to our plane, hovering - a withered rose
whose beauty is the figment of a dream;
a gleam gilding the surface of the lake.
For long hours of idyll would the Lake
poets revel in letting their spirit
soar free on the nightingales wings, and dream
of glimpsing their Muse clad in pure moonlight
but tonight magics afoot: clouds just rose
to blur the moon like fumes from incense sticks.
The Romantics habit of rambling sticks
to mind tonight, as I stroll to the lake
and sit down to recall the violent rows
wed have every night, before her spirit
gave itself over to the bland moonlight
and chose to rest and die, not live and dream.
But perhaps tis I thats strayed in a dream?
For in that small nest, fashioned out of sticks,
I see her visage, painted in moonlight.
I glimpse a lady traversing the