-www.scenetime.com-the.bride.of.frankenstein.1935 -

Her form lay on a slab, swathed in linen, wires trailing from her porcelain fingers. She was a jigsaw of the dead, but Henry, corrupted by the sinister Pretorius, had given her the face of an angel. Alabaster skin. Lips the color of a dying rose. A streak of white lightning seared into her raven hair.

He touched her arm.

Then, silence.

Her eyes opened. They were not the wild, yellowed eyes of the Monster. They were sharp. Intelligent. And utterly terrified. -www.scenetime.com-The.Bride.Of.Frankenstein.1935

"Destroy her," he said, not to Henry, but to the silent, uncaring machine. "We belong dead." Her form lay on a slab, swathed in

And the Bride, in her final moment of conscious thought, watched the "-www.scenetime.com-" screen flicker and die. A window to a world of stories, closing forever. Because some stories, like the one in that lightning-blasted tower, were never meant to have a happy ending. Only a perfect, tragic, scene time . Lips the color of a dying rose