Little Missy Muffet comes from a peticular family: human from a mother, spider from a father, she knows her nursery rhyme by heart, and arrives at Monster High slowly, carried by the spidery strangeness of her childhood. But the relationship between...
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˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚ ˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚ ˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚ ˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚ ˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚
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Missy loved the secrets in the wall, in the concrete sky, under the beds' horses. It was when she cried the loudest like a shriveled may, drowned in the feathers of its night, that she heard the darkest tales.
They were twisted, miserable, almost crawling, but she found them beautiful for these very Ovidian reasons. Ends of paths that belonged to no one, scarlet connections in liquid obsidian jewels, an intimate response to the silence of solitude.
When the adventure stopped at the new gate of New Salem, she could not contain her religious silence over her hermit's habits.
She rushed like a desperate undead toward the oak panels with red gold tipping the curtains with lilies's tapissery that the former owner had abandoned for their use. Missy used her hands hard on the chalk slate, her palms equipped with seven smooth pianist hooks as it is called, and gave herself over to listening to a high-pitched and secret symphony. While three of her black oval marbles got stuck in a confused and implacable fluttering, one hand among others came to find her and deliver her from such a dream.
"Missy, not now. I'm sure with basements and attics you'll have lots of new friends. But in the meantime, you have to help your old parents with the tidy up."
In the gray night, woody but with a concrete soul, in a winter left like a rat under the dishes, Millicent Muffet seemed like a drop in a flowering vase.
Her figure was almost as curious as that of a father, framed with a sigh of strangeness in her shoulders; with smooth, marbled cascades of mortality, while her hair, with serpentine curls of enchantment, held in a beribboned accessory which seemed to make waves of dark nymphs around an awkward presence.
But her boxes, housed in one arm, four on a tower of Babel, held up and simmered without fear. She had inherited this fog of legendary opportunities when the choice was no longer relevant. Missy felt a tight pull in her stomach, and a sensation cultivated by a velvet of polar wind seeming to bite at her heart, but she knew it was a family affair. This time. It was always three fingers on one hand. The others were shadows and chimeras. With her seven fingers gloving her humanoid hands, Missy took the topmost box when her mother leaned over, and was overcome with pride when she realized that it seemed lighter than the years gone by.
