She vanished. Not in metaphor, but utterly, completely. One moment she was there, the next, simply not.

She consumes photographs. Not metaphorically, but quite literally.

She resided, quite literally, upon a shelf.

She discovered them, starkly real, on her flesh. Bite marks. Not imagined, not a figment of her perception, but tangible impressions, as if something had actually sunk its teeth into her.

She received sustenance from a duck, a nourishment of the heart.

The woman found herself unraveling a mystery of the most personal kind – her own demise. It was a peculiar predicament, to say the least, but she was the only one who could truly understand the threads of her death and pull them taut.

She returned him, quite literally.

She held a deep affection for horses; her companion, however, felt no such connection.