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Madeline : Chapter One

Novel By: walkingonfate
Young adult

Andrew Hanes is dominated by his endless passion for the woman who visits him in his dreams, day and night. He can't escape her. Nor can he help the overriding obsession he encounters when he meets this temptress, assuming the body and mind of the mature college student, Madeline. View table of contents...



Submitted:Dec 17, 2009    Reads: 331    Comments: 7    Likes: 4   

Chapter ONE

Something hung in the air between them. He sensed it, like a magnetic feild, pulsating orbs of light drifting in the spaces between their bodies. They stood, watching one another from across the room. Both felt too far to enjoy sensations of touch and taste, but they could sense each other. They could see each other. More so, that he knew that he was dreaming. In his subconcsious mind he notes the hours that fall through the night. He notes that in moments she will materialise, disperse into small peices of peach light, oozing dusty gold. But for now she stood, erect and still in the silent mist. He can't quite make out her facial features; but he knows them off by heart . She's tall and graceful, though she doesn't move, there is an element of grace in the way she stands. Naked arms that hang by her curvacious sides, illuminate in the growing darkness. How he wishes to unroot himself and to corner her, and embrace her passionately. Fondle her fondly. He reaches out, a simple hand movement, a withdrawn gesture. And she's gone.


The alarm went off. Andrew Hanes slept in his shirt, the first few buttons were undone, and his tie still hung from his dishevelled collar. He stirred and groaned, one leg pierced through the duvet, and one arm crept across to the bedside table to grasp the clock. It shook on the table, rocking against its own silver bells. After the first few attempts the alarm continued to ring, and he pressed the pillow against his ears. Eventually it stopped. It wasn't until another three hours he was out of bed. Instead of rising, he slumped out of bed, trailing his feet as he scuffed his slippers on the stairs. He could see his reflection in the hall mirrorr; he yawned at himself, and rubbed the dark rings around his eyes. Andrew continued down the stairs, one weary step at a time, then he squinted at the downstairs clock. Shit. Was his first reaction. The second was his frantic escapade back up the stairs. This is the last time, he thought when he clambered into the shower, that I get pissed on a Sunday.


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