Gabrielle Franchetti


Biography of Gabrielle Franchetti

She hears a sound in the darkest part of the house.
Her pulse quickens.
It is nothing, she tells herself-but is it really?
Why does she get up to inspect the possible intruder in the most cliche way?
She cautiously creeps towards the rustling sounds.
-And as expected; silence.
This word rustles the across the page.
The resting water by her feet xeroxing her form from the bottom up.
She hears a soulless breath from behind-spinning around
Nothing.
The portrait on the wall that had never been touched is now missing.
But why had it been taken?
Short phrases begin to rule the page with anticipation.
The explanation of this nonsense lying in wait, set to pounce on the blank page.
Are letters up to no good?
Will the girl suddenly be sought by the foe?
-Or is she having a nightmare?
What will happen, and how will these words attack the pen?
Each dropp of succubus black ink threatens to unleash its wrath upon the page, and settle the girls fate.
They thrash out with a fair supply of hunters, equipped with squinting eyes behind their sights.
-Prepared to swarm the slopping pen at any moment.
They forget that what's here is not life.
Their laws-black on white en-caged and enslaved.
The twinkling of an eye will take as long as I say.
I am their creator, but perhaps they have broken free.
-A LAST! they shall not control me.
And if I wish, divide the wall the foe's bullet will stop in mid flight before her-
-It shall happen.
Not a thing takes place unless I approve.
Without my blessing, not a dropp of sweat shall lick down her face.
Not an eye will blink
No hearts will break-
Until it leaves my pen.
Even if the ink grabs at it, they shall be connected to string.
Perhaps I have made them wait long enough
Perhaps I should give in
Placing the pen down, I watch as they seep from the paper
Interlocking arm to reach the wand that commands them.
Is there a world in which I rule absolutely on fate?
In which I bind with chains of twisting destinies?
The ravishment of writing
The power of manipulation
I am their creator
And they are my puppets

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Manipulation

She hears a sound in the darkest part of the house.
Her pulse quickens.
It is nothing, she tells herself-but is it really?
Why does she get up to inspect the possible intruder in the most cliche way?
She cautiously creeps towards the rustling sounds.
-And as expected; silence.
This word rustles the across the page.
The resting water by her feet xeroxing her form from the bottom up.
She hears a soulless breath from behind-spinning around

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