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There was a scream of terror on my
lips when I woke.
My heart was pounding in my
chest, and my skin was
covered in a cold
sweat that thoroughly soaked my sheets.
I
felt as if I’d
fallen from a
great height, and my mind raced as
images of a dark man with a
top hat
and a
tattoo’d
face pronounced his sentence over me, and the woman I loved.
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I have been haunted by this same
dream for as long as I can remember.
Those words, spoken by a man I
have never seen,
echo in my soul.
Once again, the dream faded
quickly, its details
evaporating from my mind like a wisp of
smoke.
Only the sound of
his curse, uttered with a cajun twang, and laced with the poison of his hate, remain to haunt my day.
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That, and the eternal
beauty of a
woman whose smile is all that can bring calm to
the tempest in my soul.
They say that
artists are usually
tortured by their
inner thoughts.
I
have heard this
pain is what
drives us to
create things others can only
imagine.
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For me, at least, that is only
partially true.
I’ve been sculpting out of marble and stone for as long as I could
hold a hammer and chisel, but
most of my creations have
nothing to do with my many, vivid dreams.
Those
works pay my
bills, but they
mean nothing to me.
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No, the one piece I keep is the
one I could never
sell.
It is a life
size work, one of such beauty that it almost pains me to gaze upon it.
When I do, I know it was less my creation from the stone than something I
freed from its grasp.
I call it ‘Forlorn Love’, for that is
what I feel when I gaze upon it, but in my heart, I hear the
name ‘Rose’
calling out to me. Aletta
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Posed in a
moment of
sublime happiness,
she stands as if leaning in toward a
lover, with her lips forming the
same hopeful
smile I see in my thoughts.
Her body is petit but
round, with
pleasantly wide hips, and
breasts that rise
full and
apparently firm from her chest.
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Her
nipples are hard and
thick, easily visible as
they poke
through the
thin gown that forever
clothes her marbled body.
She is literally the woman of my dreams, and my heart aches to know I
will only ever see her realized in the
cold form of a marble
statue.
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Good
morning, Rose, I whispered as I caressed her cheek.
Often, I
came down to my shop to
drink my coffee with
her as if she were something more than stone.
Now, don't look at me like
that," I chided.
Is the fact that I’d rather spend time with you than a woman of flesh and blood
really that pathetic?
Hottest webcams. Her carved
eyes stared silently
back, mocking my words, and even her iconic smile seemed to fade as if she were scoffing at my foolishness.
I know, I
said in reply to her muted
silence.
You’re
right, I
need to
get out and
live.
I
just wish you were more than
rock.
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I wish you could speak, Rose.
I wish you could
tell me
who you
really are.
Is that so
much to ask? Silently, Rose
stared back.
She seemed so real that I
often expected to hear her reply, but her lips never parted, and the stone of her
body never
carried the
warmth of life I craved so
deeply.
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I dreamed of you again
last night.
" I told her.
"It was the most frightening of my dreams, Rose.
The one with the Voodoo
man and his curse.
I hate that dream, yet I almost
look forward to it these
days.
Rose’s expression remained frozen, but I could almost hear her question, and I answered
with an exasperated
sigh. Beckycastle
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Why? Because, in it, you are
alive, Rose! It is the
only one
where I can see
you in
life! The only one in which I
can touch your face!
For all
its horror, it is the only
time I’m really able to be with you! For that reason
alone, I never
want it to stop.
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Does that
make sense to you? I
shook my
head and caressed her cheek again.
Other dreams haunt my nights,
Rose.
Sometimes I see myself as a painter, frantically fluttering my brush
over the canvass, creating the same vision of beauty as I behold in you.
Other nights, I am a musician,
composing sorrowful music to a
long lost love. 100
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In each, I am
seeking that same
feeling of love, and helplessly
searching for an answer to a question I can never ask.
Who are you, Rose, and why do you rule my dreams? As
has happened on so many mornings, a
tear from the loss I felt formed in my eye and dropped
wetly on the stone of her
hand.
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I had once even believed that these tears might break the curse the Hoodoo laid in my dreams, but
like all fantasies, such
things carry no
power into the stark reality of the waking
world.
"Obsession is a
wicked curse.
" I told her as I gazed
into her unblinking eyes.
"
Even something as fantastical as a dream begins to
carry a reality
when it appears enough, Rose. Free
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My dreams of you seem so
very real.
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