Some things have no name.

The seer is supine upon her sofa, eating chocolates. She especially likes the ones with a cherry inside.

In a ritual full of sexual undertones, she bites through the top, sucks slowly at the liquid center, finally eating the candied cherry, then the gutted chocolate shell. Afterward, she licks her fingers, and reaches for another, as she reads a crime filled pulp novel.

Her numerous, sometimes discordant with each other pleasures are: chocolate covered cherries, barbed remarks, fiendish gossip, Puccini's operas, filthy French post cards, pulp fiction full of criminals, but notable for an absence of romance, sexual and/or mayhem glutted fantasies spun out while she lounges in her bathtub filled with bubbles and scented green waters of peculiar origin, arguments with the cat over whom she towers in height though not in intelligence, casting spells (which rarely work properly), being idle, seerhood, having tea and a bagel for breakfast, and falling in love.

Though not necessarily in that order.

*********

The princess paces the corridors of the castle in a state of agitation. She has heard the voice of the king whispering of conspiracies; promising the guillotine to those who betray.

She had spoken too long in the night to her lover, who stood outside her window with a lute, serenading her as he caught the words she said in a tiny basket attached at his waist by a fine silver chain.

*********

The cartomancer sits in her darkened room, thinking. It has been a quiet day with no distressed foolish young things, looking for signs of love that will eventually torture them, in the spread of her cards.

The princess hasn’t been seen in quite a while, and there is talk of blood spilling across rough dungeon floors. And more guarded talk, of great lamentations emanating from the King’s private chambers, but no word on whose voice it is that does the crying out.

The cartomancer reaches for her glass of absinthe and sips at it, her glance moving across the room until it meets with the eye sockets of the skull staring back at her from the bookshelf.

Now, what was his name?

*

The anaconda of words is present. No one ever promised you anything else.
*fic*