She had a face that was all points and angles, a predatory beak of a nose and keen eyes that missed nothing, especially not prey.
It had a face well suited for dark hyperbole, brows low and brooding, lips pulled back to the perpetual snarl of something that preyed on old slices of roast beef.
He had a face puckered like a damp bun, wrinkled with confusion as he stared at the comments on his blog, uncertain how to reply.
The front of his head suggested a face, yet there was none under his hat, only a slick of shadow tinged with menace. A drop of sweat down your spine. A prickling in your joints.
The squamous terror from beyond the stars had a face of such horrifying, eldritch geometry that merely gripping my pen in an attempt to scribe a description on paper drove me to the brink of madness. Those nostrils. The window, the window!
Yea verily, verily. Everybody loves a Dagon allusion.
He had a face. The past tense was appropriate.
He had a face, I'm sure of it. But as to its appearance, whether it was hatchet-thin or round as a balloon, a generous mouth or one looking as though it'd been cut by a knife -- well, that's why I'm here. With you. I know you've seen him. And I know you've seen this here hammer. So why don't we spare ourselves the unpleasantries and start talking? I've got all night, after all.
Post a Comment