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[ studies his progress. satisfied, he moves to the other side. ] well, that’s alright. you’re a journalist ⎯⎯ your hands are made for writing. [ lightly taps the underside of her chin with the scissors. ] look forward.
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no, i do. i 𝒶lways do. [ catches the childlike shift of her hands and suppresses a smile. ] i was only curious. [ * 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠 who they ask for favors ⎯⎯ who they invite to stand this close. ]
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[ takes a section of scarlet hair between his fingers, pulling the strands taut, like thread in a loom. carefully snips at the ends; following given guidelines, of course. ] you don’t have someone else who does this for you?
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₍ dove takes perch with a flourish of her skirt. holds index horizontally across point of nose. ₎ don’t cut below here, okay? otherwise it’ll look stupid.
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enter : 𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑒, at last. pays her inquiry no mind ⎯⎯ just grins from ear—to—ear, watching as the excitement in her eyes withers like dead leaves. 〝 there she is. 〞 he chimes, drinking in his * admirer, his shadow : a face +
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a bag of grain feed rests on her hip, softly huffing from the effort of hauling it as she approaches the barn ⎯⎯ a familiar melody catching her ear. her breathing slows, senses dizzying, suddenly ﹙ … ﹚
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+ and grant ignores it, boring holes into ‘𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑒.’ the chesire killer’s voice comes low and satin soft, like something reserved for the closest of companions, 〝 can i 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑡 you, camila? 〞 gently taps knife against goat’s +
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+ steadily gripping the knife. settled comfortably in position, now, cloaked in the shadows, hostage held still. softly humming to the tune of ‘𝑡𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑔 …
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as he stepped into the barn, greeted by the earthy, sun—baked aroma of hay, he wondered if @guillotineteeth was expecting him ( after all, she’d proved herself fond of cataloging his movements ); as he leaped into the goat pen, +
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+ wrestled a beady—eyed buck and brought his switchblade to its white throat, he wondered if camila itched for his teeth at her jugular.
the goat bleats and writhes ⎯⎯ grant straps a toned arm around its body, opposite hand +
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+ grave ... or maybe it fell out when you were running from me … or when i was dragging you by the ankles ... but, you better hurry ⎯⎯ it’d be a shame if you missed your shift. 〞
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〝 to 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤. 〞 he repeats, scoffing, half amused by her audacity, half piqued by it. the sun trickles through the lacework of tree branches, warming the black blazer clinging to his back; he soaks in the heat, lets it sing a +
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lowering her shirt, a scoff ⎯⎯ freed hands brushing away bramble entangled in her hair. “home. to shower.” eyes the dirt—stricken ponytail on her wrist, before she pulls her hair out of her ﹙ … ﹚
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+ lullaby to the buzzing beneath his skin, and listens as god reminds him he was born to hunt beneath the cloak of 𝐧ight. pressing tongue against the inside of his cheek, shrugging unsympathetically, 〝 maybe you should check your +
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