Matilda M.
Were any of these people aware that it was Hexennacht? Considering the excruciating lack of ecstatic shrieking amidst bonfires, uninhibited orgies, and the absence of sacrificial primroses orbiting half-cockles of honey and milk, her sources pointed to no.
In another life, her last name was Parker and her first name was Bonnie and she was the keenest of getaway drivers, particularly, to a bathtub gin loverboy named Clyde. You can see it with how—so startlingly seamless, so bullet swift that it could make one tense in the shoulders—she expertly parallel parks the upscale, pale ghosthorse she rode in on. The Royce’s engine was put to sleep, halting what music she had pulsing, pinching the breath of it shut. She nests there in the unanimous dark with a secret fear in her heart, fear of trouble following that usually usurps her innocent desire for fucking enjoyment.
Somewhere in the starry bounds of late and later, she is out and arriving with a believable Miss World smile and an emerald city party dress that Glinda would be proud of. She’s here for the booze, and that’s where she set her course.