Friday, November 06, 2009


They approached the trio with trepidation. They'd been warned by many of their bewitching siren songs, that coven of harpies with their wide-brimmed hats and exposed shins, shod in t-straps; clad in crêpe. Which would speak first? Medusa of the wire-rimmed glasses? Macbeth's mater of the marcel? They shook in awe and terror, mere shadows of their souls.

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