IlsabetMelarne

Wisps of steam curled up from the bubbling surface of the rose-scented water. Blood red petals were strewn across the linoleum floor surrounding the clawed bathtub and alongside its edges. Dim light emanated from several candles nestled along the porcelain ridges. A nude, female form sat crying in the soapy waters. Amber locks framed the woman's plain face. Salted rivulets poured down her porcelain cheeks as she sobbed quietly. Across the room, perched on her vanity, a tiny radio crooned out Ave Maria. A shy, quiet woman, Alicia Valleron had been surprised when Maxwell Cordova, a well respected partner in one of the most prestigious law-firm

Cerulean pools hidden beneath heavily lashed lids gazed thoughtlessly below the heavens. Playful winds danced across her skin, mercurial fingers of those spirited sylphs pulling at stray emerald fronds. A delicate hand reached up to tuck them behind her ears, exposing the simple beauty of her face. Her face, oh sweet Seraphim! Salted rivulets threatened to pour down that porcelain perfection as the wingless angel mourned the suffering of the world below her. Consummation of the soul. Her lungs expanded as she drew in an inhalation of the deliciously warm air then contracted, forcing the audible breath past voluptuous lips to sing to her God

How does one seek the sacrosanct path to Godhood? Is it found in legendary tales written in song and prose by fabled bards? Nimble fingers drawing on the thin, melancholy strings of an harp whilst thin lips form sonorous ballads of hardship and discord? Or is the path found in stories told by aging warriors seeking to ease the aches of their joints by the warmth of a fireplace, idling their time away in a nameless, ramshackle tavern? Nay, I tell you, nay. Though the bard may pluck wondrous tunes on his harp which would evoke the saddest of lamentations in even the hardest of hearts and the once legendary, venerable warrior may brag of his