girls can be dangerous and still win
Making a handwave motion at his gaping response, she made a puffing noise. “Then don’t suggest it, geez,” as if it was Iskra’s fault for bringing the matter into orbit and possibility. Head tilting at the altered statement, her nose wrinkled, the pragmatic colliding with the emboldened and need for chaos. “But then we’d have to wonder how often a house needs to be fed.” Every day? Or would it work like reptiles and such – snagging and feasting and then being fine for days or weeks at a time?
Regardless, Melita didn’t cease her munching; loud crunching of hardened taco shells or chips probably softening some of the impending blows, but she shrugged it away, dipping further into the seven layers to get an adequate supply of beans, salsa, sour cream, and some spicy substance upon one excessively loaded vessel. “You can’t have it both ways,” she snickered; one moment ago he was complaining about the poor main character not doing it at all properly. “As one might expect, the moment she entered the dark, old house, she heard voices. Each of them in different pitches, tones, and layers, but all of them saying the same thing. Help us.” Leaning further into the flame to appear even eerier, the demigod swallowed the remnants of her cargo-amplified food and brushed the dust off her fingers. “Of course, Violet was frightened – but also intrigued. Those voices sounded like people…girls she’d known. When she went further into the house, she couldn’t believe her surprise – because within the old, abandoned kitchen, were remnants of those village daughters. Norma’s comb. Lace’s barrettes. Bella’s ribbons. Rosie’s ripped gown, and so on and on and on, until she realized the ghosts talking to her were those individuals. They were gone, but she could help them somehow.”
Waiting for his response, she arched her brow, but persisted, fully invested now. “What can I do for you? she asked them. But then there was movement at the door, and she ran, all the way to the next room over.”
Regardless, Melita didn’t cease her munching; loud crunching of hardened taco shells or chips probably softening some of the impending blows, but she shrugged it away, dipping further into the seven layers to get an adequate supply of beans, salsa, sour cream, and some spicy substance upon one excessively loaded vessel. “You can’t have it both ways,” she snickered; one moment ago he was complaining about the poor main character not doing it at all properly. “As one might expect, the moment she entered the dark, old house, she heard voices. Each of them in different pitches, tones, and layers, but all of them saying the same thing. Help us.” Leaning further into the flame to appear even eerier, the demigod swallowed the remnants of her cargo-amplified food and brushed the dust off her fingers. “Of course, Violet was frightened – but also intrigued. Those voices sounded like people…girls she’d known. When she went further into the house, she couldn’t believe her surprise – because within the old, abandoned kitchen, were remnants of those village daughters. Norma’s comb. Lace’s barrettes. Bella’s ribbons. Rosie’s ripped gown, and so on and on and on, until she realized the ghosts talking to her were those individuals. They were gone, but she could help them somehow.”
Waiting for his response, she arched her brow, but persisted, fully invested now. “What can I do for you? she asked them. But then there was movement at the door, and she ran, all the way to the next room over.”
Melita
she knew exactly what she was doing when she invited the wild in
