Before Inari could protest, he slid his arms around her waist and lifted her up towards the ceiling. She grasped the edge of the opening and hoisted herself through, feeling uncomfortably exposed in the rags of her dressing gown.
“Please don’t look at me,” she said, embarrassed.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” the demon replied gallantly. She was sure he was lying,”…
The stone wall crowded with huddled figures beautifully rendered in marble agony, damned souls locked in stone who huddle and teem and yearn toward the unfelt space denied them, groping from their anhedonic orgy for some dimly conceived paradise of emptiness. Though motionless they suggest motion, a surging wave of sculpted humanity impeccably rendered. The alabaster snarl carved on one wide-eyed face with crooked teeth. The flaring nostrils of one reaching figure always at the onset of a scream. Tension in the tendons of a reaching wrist.
TIME IS FICKLE, ever changing and flowing, ebbing like the sea. A vast ocean of moments brushing against the next, rippling beneath waters both turgid and calm. It slips between our fingers when we wish to hold it, yet moves with sluggish stubbornness when we seek to flee it, riding upon our shoulders like an oppressive yoke. Time is a burden we cannot escape. Our lives are swallowed in the cold, dark waters of its unfathomable depths; never to be remembered or recalled, fading like a whisper that never was. On occasion—a very rare occasion—one moment will brush against the next and a spark will flare to life that refuses to be extinguished. This is the moment, the spark, and this is how the end begins for a shattered realm—with a small nymphling who was cold.
Sabrina Flynn, A Thread in the Tangle