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drat it, this looks fun. Make me a card! In.
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Jul 15, 2014 17:14
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Cruelty 1198 words Rae dreamed one night that her wife Marisole had never fallen victim to a respirator unsuitable for invasive atmospheres. She was leading her on a chase through a space station, bounding and racing through the corridors while Rae ducked in and out of side passages and tiny chambers, giddy at the thought of popping out of a lucky door and cornering her. Finally, Rae dropped from a vent and trapped Marisole at an airlock. When Marisole talked, she may have said something delightful, Rae could not remember; but she spoke in her flat, unsexed prosthetic voice. The disgusting detail spilled over the dream. The airlock tilted and whirled away at a sickening angle, and Rae turned to flee but could not. Rae awoke and glared at her bunk's display's ticking time app, letting her disgust subside into numbness until sleep almost found her again. After stretching her calves and rotating her neck and wrists, she activated the display. A bulletin proclaimed that Adam Dominguez, the Highwayman, had been captured by station rangers in the early morning and would be executed at 00:00. The Highwayman, captured alive! She envisioned grizzled rangers cornering him on some abandoned asteroid and stunning him, while suspecting it had been a mere treachery. One great question remained, and it made her tingle with hope. Were his organic tissues still up for grabs? She rose from bed and in her cabin's ambient light, donned her jumpsuit. It was 05:24. She hurried through the corridors to the hospital deck, dodging maintenance workers and cleaners, and then to Marisole's suite, a chamber she shared with three other long-term patients. Rae awoke Marisole with her usual tap on either cheek. “You're so early,” she said, her prosthetic voice modulated too loud for a pre-breakfast hour. Another patient stirred. Rae offered her wife a hand. She took it and lifted herself from bed, then adjusted her abdominal brace and followed her into the passage. Rae smiled. “We could get you a new trachea,” she said. Her respiratory system's cells were too damaged and risk-prone to be duplicated. Their insurance was nowhere close to paying the cost of a donor or a farmed organ. She narrowed her eyes and shook her head. “There's an execution at midnight. I want to put a bid on the tissue.” Marisole softened her voice by pressing on the side of her neck. “The triad buys everything. They're everywhere in this station now.” “I'll go to the triad.” “They don't know you. They don't know me. Rae, this is dangerous.” “Remember when I installed the pipes in their new spa?” “God, you're stupid. Don't get mixed up in this. Aiya, I want to go back to sleep.” At that, Rae curled her lip and seized her wife's hand. As a rebuke about how stubborn and pessimistic she was coalesced on Rae's tongue, Marisole spoke. “Forget about this,” she said in her flat voice. “Things could get better someday. Our insurance could upgrade.” Marisole squeezed her hand and her gaze dropped. Before the accident, she might have started crying. But having already endured tribulation Rae could only imagine, she merely shrugged. “I won't forget it,” Rae said. Marisole raised her chin and kissed her. The sour, clinical taste of her wife's saliva marinated in her mouth as Rae returned to her cabin to equip herself for the day. She hurried to first breakfast, drank her nutriblend. The hall, often subdued during first breakfast, buzzed. Every display played footage of the Highwayman's exploits. Rae, a second breakfast woman, knew none of the people sitting by her, and no conversations delayed her mission. She left the hall and followed the inner ring corridor to the sector where the triad held court. To Rae, nothing had seemed sinister about the sector. Its lighting, structures and decoration suggested nothing to her. But she had seen many pass through with fidgeting hands and backward glances. Now she entered the sector as a petitioner and felt dread. A year ago, she had installed plumbing in Mr. Bai's flagship spa. She walked inside and asked the attendant when Mr. Bai would be available for an audience. The attendant vanished behind a curtain, and a big man with a purple scar on his neck replaced her. After Rae told him each detail about her intentions several times, he led her to a small, screened chamber where Mr. Bai sat a sofa before a red tea service. He wore a plain robe, and his tattooed skin had a flush that suggested a recent bath. He motioned for Rae to sit on the cushion opposite him. “Good morning,” he said. “I remember you. You did fine work building the pipes here.” “Thank you, Mr. Bai.” He poured two cups of tea. Rae shifted, unsure if she should take the first sip, or give the privilege to her host. Mr. Bai sipped the tea. “Your finances worry me,” he said. “I accessed your records and found several loans. Your job does not pay poorly, but it does not pay well. Your wife is on disability. But money is not everything.” Rae raised her cup with an unsteady hand and swallowed the tea. “The salvage boat Missing Score is in dock 3. My men will call you in two nights to see the ship's water system. I promise that it will be fast and safe.” Rae held the empty teacup in both hands, making herself half-sick imagining creeping into a ship and committing sabotage under the eyes of triad goons. But she remembered her dream, and imagined her wife's quiet misery. She bit her lip. “I can do it.” With a faint smile, Mr. Bai nodded. “Excellent. My doctors will work as soon as possible. Goodbye, Rae.” When she left the spa, she could not help but break into a gallop. She would have begun celebrating, but her shift was about to begin. Emergency klaxons erupted, and she froze. The wall displays blared to life and and showed the Highwayman, disheveled and dressed in a prisoner's stunsuit. “Attention: Adam Dominguez has escaped custody, and is believed to be armed. Remain in your cabins or place of work.” She trembled, then swore at the display's apparition, as if daring it to stay there. The announcement repeated, and she knew where she had to go. She raced for the hospital deck. Pain burst in her neck, but before she could scream, a rippling numbness cooled the torment. She hit the floor, registering the event as if watching someone else do it. Two pairs of arms lifted her. Her pulse dragged as they steered her through the halls like the prow of an old ship. She willed her head to loll to one side and saw the Highwayman's face beside hers. Her pulse spiked, but her outrage gave no strength to her body. They dragged her into a dock. A pack of security officers fired stun darts. The Highwayman and his posse returned fire as they beelined towards a ship. When they reached it, Rae was dropped like a cold fish outside the airlock. She watched the ship escape the dock to the boom of gunfire until her tears obscured everything. 
Alpacalips Now fucked around with this message at 05:15 on Jul 21, 2014 |
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Jul 19, 2014 18:22
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Best Show and Tell Ever (159 words) Emily brought a pterodactyl to school for show-and-tell. She couldn't wait to see the look on Sandy's face when she realized no one would care about her dumb pictures from her trip to Spain once a dinosaur started flying around the room. During roll call, it screeched and ripped apart its box, then flew onto Ms. Staples head. It beelined to the window with Ms. Staples' wig in its talons. It thudded against the glass, and then the floor. Ms. Staples calmed the class by beating her yardstick against her desk like 100 times. She retrieved her wig and marched to Emily. “Take that hideous thing outside!” Sobbing, Emily scooped it up and walked outside. A shadow fell over the playground. A huge pterodactyl landed in front of her. “I, uh, saved his life.” It bowed. After nuzzling its baby, it motioned for Emily to jump on its back. She jumped on, and her many adventures began.
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Jul 21, 2014 14:43
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sebmojo posted:I will do six (6) line by lines, sound off if you want 1 This sounds great! Alpacalips Now fucked around with this message at 16:34 on Jul 22, 2014 |
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Jul 22, 2014 15:17
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I'm in.
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Jul 23, 2014 07:46
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Lissandra's Hope (1175 words) Bachelors from the four winds journeyed to Princess Lissandra's debut banquet. The great hall's tables heaved with food and wine. Grandees and ladies tittered at the centerpiece, a seafood platter served inside a clamshell large enough to trap a man. They appraised each guest, wondering which would tell a tale to make the princess weep, and thus win her hand. Lissandra stood in her chamber, praying with her lips for a successful escape as three ladies-in-waiting fussed over her hair and gown. “Have I pulled at your highness's hair too tightly?” Belinda, the paramount lady, asked. “I said nothing.” The ladies-in-waiting had labored to turn her into a debutante. Her ash-brown hair towered above her, and she smelled like an orangery in spring. Her gown, sewn from fabric called rose black, clinched her body. It had none of the flounces or frills with which she was accustomed. She felt like a hand inside a glove. “Do you think any of the gentlemen will move your highness to tears?” Belinda asked when they had ceased flattering her. Each tear Lissandra shed was a gem. When she scraped her knee on the steps to her bedchamber, she wept quartz. When her baby sister died, saltwater pearls tumbled down her cheeks. When her father, King Ortalis, held her favorite greyhound at swordpoint, explaining he needed jewels to rebuild the kingdom, and that if she ever stopped crying, he would skin the dog alive, she bawled fat rubies. Her girlhood passed, and she had digested tragedy after tragedy from the kingdom and beyond until they became as burdensome as lunch. She responded to her father's threats with stolidity that unnerved him and glided through the castle with a courtly smile carved into her face. The king's gem horde dwindled. Lissandra walked to the windowsill and retrieved her fan. She glanced to the garden below, where a squire holding a covered cage tipped his hat to her. “His Majesty will have his tears,” she said. “Excuse me, I must have a private moment.” Her ladies-in-waiting promised solitude, but as Lissandra descended the tower, she heard their gowns rustle above her. She stepped into the garden and approached the squire, who bowed from the waist, removing his hat. “We are not alone,” he said, peering past her. The ladies-in-waiting approached. “Your highness,” Belinda said with a curtsey, “may I suggest a more solitary place?” “This garden suits me.” The ladies-in-waiting eyed the squire. “Forgive me,” Belinda said, “but a princess sighted with a strange man on the very eve of her debut banquet may raise questions.” “Do you suggest I keep scandalous company? This is Ingo of Ravenscraig, the falconer for whom I sent. You may take your leave.” Belinda, with her most languid stride, led the ladies indoors. Lissandra and her visitor slipped into the shadows of the arcade, then vanished into an alcove concealed by vines. He lit a candle and uncovered his cage, revealing a plump, four-winged creature with a stiletto of a beak. It peered at Lissandra with black eyes, and she grimaced back. “You must go through with this,” the man said. “I am not frightened.” She lowered her bare wrist to the cage. It plunged its beak into her vein. She gasped. Its keeper eased out its beak and bandaged her wrist. When he finished, he knelt, rolled up his doublet's sleeve and drew the beak to his own wrist. “Turn away,” he said. Lissandra, growing dizzy, faced the vines and concentrated on breathing until her vision cleared. The man behind her groaned, and she winced as she felt his legs spasm against the floor. “Turn around,” he said at last. The man had become her, down to her long hair and mole below her lip. Her stomach churned. She braced against the wall and glared at the thing before her. It smiled in her courtly way and rose like a foal on her slender legs. “You're a shifter,” she said. “Yes. Those of us who survived are excellent. If you flee and don't look back, none will be wiser.” “I thought...” she said, shaking her head. The hum of bassoons floated into the garden, and she shook. Her debut feast had begun. “It doesn't matter,” said the thing. “Change your clothes.” The shifter pressed its slender form against the wall and she inched to the alcove's corner, where she had stashed a peasant smock, sandals and straw hat. Her quivering hands could not reach her gown's laces. The shifter's fingers began undoing them with an arachnid's efficiency. She pretended the thing was one of the dozen handmaidens who doted on her and cushioned her from her father's wrath. Maybe, she thought with a shiver, it had been one of her maids once, observing her every mannerism and inflection. She ignored an impulse to seize and throttle her imposter. It finished the task. She handed the gown to it and they both dressed. The changer had somehow bent its arms enough to tie up the gown by itself. Its hair fell loose, and they had not been able to avoid soiling the gown, but it was no longer Lissandra's problem. She cracked an uncourtly smile and laughed. The shifter blew out the candle, covered the cage, and slipped outside. They parted; the shifter hurried to the tower, hugging the cage, and Lissandra made for the castle harbor. There she met Hester, her wet nurse, with a kiss on either cheek. After Lissandra paid the harbormaster a string of pearls, they boarded a caravel bound for Jahur. She and Hester squeezed past sailors displaying tattooed chests and wiry shoulders. She lowered her face as the men bustled around her, shouting puzzling words and heaving ropes. As the ship lurched for the harbor wall, coronets keened high above them. Lissandra imagined the shifter settling at her father's side, placing its hands on its lap as she did. She wondered if any of the suitors' tales would crack the thing's heart, then if the thing had a heart. “Look at the merry lanterns in the city,” Hester said. Lissandra faced the dark sea. Hester placed a hand on her shoulder. “I understand why you're leaving,” Hester said, “but you must promise you'll return someday and make things right.” “The kingdom can burn. We will be free in Jahur.” Hester wrung her creased hands, quelling the urge to strike her the way she had struck her own daughters. “Remember who sired you, young lady. You could return and declare your replacement a fraud, and change the kingdom's fate.” “I will not speak of this now.” “Shall we speak of Jahur then?” Lissandra flung her shoulders forward and sobbed. Hester's hands flew to hold her face. She withdrew her hands, revealing an emerald as long as the princess's fingernail. For a moment, Lissandra held it between her thumb and finger, watching it sparkle in the day's last light. She wrapped it in her palm, clung to Hester and wept into her shawl until it was heavy with her tears.
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Jul 27, 2014 18:30
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I just want to say thanks a lot to the judges this week and last week for the feedback. It's been very helpful, and is motivating me to really write again. Unfortunately, I have to pass this week. 
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Jul 29, 2014 15:06
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In. Is the flash rule a quote we have to include?
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Aug 5, 2014 05:27
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Unsure if you caught my sign-up, so I'm in. Thanks for the critique, Seb!
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Aug 5, 2014 14:51
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The Zombie Herald (1095 words) Dr. Pilski emerged from his sealed tent and stepped on a freshly-bound newsletter. When he decided it was no hallucination, he lifted it with a hand protected by nitrile rubber. Its appearance reminded him of fanzines from his punk years. Across the top, someone had printed in a stenciled font Zombie Herald. The headline LIVING REACH ISLAND blared in runny ink. When he had finished his first real belly laugh in a month, he placed the newsletter among the leaves where he had found it and activated his gas mask's walkie-talkie. “Pilski to Pelican, do you copy?. Zombie Herald? You got me! How the hell did you get it over here?” “Bowers to Pilski,” the operator said, “What about the zombies?” “The joke,” Dr. Pilski said. “That newsletter. Come on, Bowers, I know you're in on this. You always do this thing with your voice. Seriously, how the hell did you guys get it here?” Bowers had spoken with no coyness or jest, and Pilski knew it. She must not have been in on it, he thought, and he cursed himself for blurting “zombie” followed by “got me” over air. “I'm fine. Say hi to everyone; I'm off to comb the beach for samples.” A shape lurched from the trees and froze, as if dazzled by the weak morning light. Pilski clapped his free hand over his gas mask filter and barreled towards the tent. “Pilski to Bowers! Something's here. Right now.” It waved its arm, a motion that rigor mortis had rendered plantlike. Even after two years, Pilski struggled to stomach the creak of dry bones and squeak of dead muscle being compelled to move. “Frank, Zombie Herald,” it rasped. “What's happening?” Bowers said. The zombie stomped towards him. Hand shaking, he reached for his pistol. “Stop, or I shoot.” The zombie creaked to a halt, and Pilski blinked at it. It wore a button-up shirt, tucked sloppily into its corduroy slacks. Its waving motion did not cease. “Frank, Zombie Herald.” Pilski shifted towards the newsletter and grabbed it, raising it like a signal flag. The zombie's creaking arm froze, and it extended its thumb. “Pilski!” Bowers said. “Do you copy?” “It's a zombie. But I don't think it's hostile.” “Stay calm. Backup is on the way.” “Story?” Pilski pushed himself up. The suspicion that he was about to ambushed crept up on him, but he could not peel his gaze from the zombie giving him a thumbs-up. He offered a nod, and realized he was smiling. He tucked the newsletter into his belt. “It's talking, Bowers.” “I am Frank,” he said. “Bowers, its name is Frank! Frank, I'm Dr. Nathan Pilski. I'm here to study the island. How is, um, everything?” “Dull. My readers want real news.” Pilski watched Frank's posture straighten, which he achieved with a series of violent tics. He began lowering his arm. “On the parasite front,” Pilski began, “no new outbreaks in North America for six months. I wish I could say the same thing about Southeast Asia. They say Cambodia's lost.” As Pilski delivered a grim report, a parasite slithered out of Frank's nostril and, like a dog making its bed, eased inside its host's ear. Frank remained still as Pilski's account meandered into South America, where cattle had turned carnivorous, then onto Europe, sundered by sectarian violence. “Do you know Portland?” Frank said, cutting into Pilski's description of Paris's Satanist Riots. “Maine? Yeah.” “Portland is south of us, I think, but we never see the city lights. Is it south?” “Yes.” “Many of us are Portlanders. We miss home. Thanks.” Pilski gazed into Frank's lidless eyes, which twitched. The notion of Frank's mortified tear ducts trying to function moved Pilski, but he then wondered if it was some parasite slithering across his cranium. “How long have you been here?” “They moved me here in the second Shifting. I probably got the parasites from the water. It got so bad they put me in a container with other zombies. It was so crowded, no one could sit, but it wasn't so bad. The vent was good enough, so I put up with it. “But someone went nuts. Vince, I think! He started biting and tearing everyone. Big mess! He tore off an old woman's arm. We called for help, but no one heard us. We had to stop him. We just piled on him until he stopped moving.” “Christ.” “When they dropped us, a guard shot him. All he asked was 'Who was it?' and pop. Vince wasn't bad, he just got pushed too far. The old lady isn't even upset about the arm anymore. I think she mostly just spins around until she falls.” Frank paused. His voice had gone ragged. Pilsky's finger was growing tired pressing the walkie-talkie's send button. “Bowers,” he said, “did you get that? Frank just told a story.” “Dobson and Ramirez made landfall. Stay where you are,” she replied. “Who's coming?” Frank rasped. His eyes bulged and lolled. Pilski swore, and his excitement became tinged with fear. “Frank, don't worry. I know them. They'll listen to me.” He offered a thumbs-up and tapped his walkie-talkie. “Dobson, Ramirez! I'm talking with a zombie right now and everything's OK. I'm at base. Don't point your guns or anything. Do you copy?” “Roger,” Ramirez said. “I almost have visual.” Frank began rocking. His eyes rolled back and a choking sound issued from his throat. Pilski trembled, his head spinning with memories of berserk zombies. “Frank, it's fine. No one's going to hurt you.” Frank issued three violent croaks. Pilski's experiences with berserk zombies drove his hand to his pistol, but Frank spun and bolted into the woods. His joints and muscles squealed with exertion until the pines smothered the noise. A pop erupted through the trees. Pilski's stomach turned. He ran to the sound; Frank laid sprawled among the rocks like a cockroach. His arms flailed; he emitted a flat moan. Ramirez stood on the beach. He leveled his rifle at the zombie's skull. “Don't shoot!” Pilski screamed. - - - Pilski wheeled Frank off the skiff and down the decaying dock. A zombie assemblage loomed onshore. None uttered a sound, which made Pilski tense. He released his grip on the wheelchair, which was laden with paper and printing supplies. “Bye, Frank.” “Thanks.” Arms creaking, Frank heaved himself home. Pilski returned to the skiff and eased the Herald from his pocket. The headline's ink had faded. Soon the nameplate would, too. Pilski smiled, and imagined what he would read in the Herald's three-page return edition.
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Aug 10, 2014 15:14
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In!
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Aug 13, 2014 15:32
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Golden Revelation (1262 words) The city lay before them. Strange how a single star can steal the eye, and change the shape of the night. This was especially true for Austin Wright. For eight months, he had been communicating with a new star astronomers believed to be a mere supernova. He nodded to it and uttered "Kamaq" under his breath. For now, Kamaq was silent, and Austin felt relief knowing it trusted him enough to fulfill the promise he had made. He sunk into a folding chair beside his former partner-in-crime, Tony. Their interviewer, a freckled college girl with a half-sleeve cat tattoo, flashed the OK sign. "Hi," she chirped to her mic, "I'm Reese Goss, way up on Lefonte Hill with Austin 'drat' Wright and Tony Morales of No Sleep, who will be rapping at the States Streets Benefit tonight. How does it feel to be going onstage again?" He grinned and began reciting the gist of the script he'd written the night before. "We're actually going on as solo acts. A lot's happened in the last year, and we're just not ready to start up No Sleep again." Tony leaned towards the mic. "You're gonna see lots of new material, though. I've been hitting the lab since the last tour, and I'm pretty excited to get it out there." Reese turned to her laptop. "You put up a demo track. Mind if I play it so we can get a little taste of what's to come?" "Sure!" "Ok! Here's Tony Morales's 'Broken Home.'" The compressed strings faded in, and Austin winced. After Tony's opening "uh", the strings dropped and a hi-hat sample he'd heard before played over what could have been breaking glass. The best thing Austin could say about Tony's flow was that, despite the cheap mike's cheap mic's distortion, it was audible. Reese maintained a smile and paused after exactly thirty seconds. "That was Tony Morales's 'Broken Home.' Austin, what can we expect from your set?" "I'm gonna keep it a surprise. And, I just want to remind you all, tonight is for the businesses and homes hit by the tornado. Come out and support the community!" "That's right!" Reese said. "Now before I let you go, what do you say to the rumors that you spent last year hitchhiking across South America?" "Last year was rough. Really personal stuff. I did a little traveling; I feel better about it now." "We're excited to have you back! Thanks for your time." During sound check, Austin slipped away from the crowd and stage lights and lit up a menthol next to the dumpster where he'd smoked his first cigarette. Kamaq winked at him from beyond the haze, and the ease he felt during the interview slipped away. His performace would be Event Horizon. Point of No Return. He smelled the smoke of a Turkish Silver and realized Tony had beaten him there. "Still our favorite spot," Tony said, flicking his ash. "Guess so. So that 'Broken Home' track's for real?" "gently caress yeah. It'll sound good live." "With the strings and poo poo?" Austin laughed. "Who produced that?" "Remember my cousin, Armando?" "Ain't he, like, sixteen years old?" "Yeah, three years ago. Now he's in this audio engineering program." He took a drag. "You're talking like No Sleep's back together or something. Ready to get back in it?" "Not yet. Listen, you got to make me a promise." Tony nodded. Austin, watching Kamaq from the corner of his eye, spoke softly. "At the end of my set, I'm gonna say some really wild stuff. Even if it sounds like I'm tripping, make sure no one interrupts me until the end." "What? Is this gonna be some peyote bruja bullshit?" "It's something I need to get off my chest, and everyone needs to hear." His cigarette drooped in his mouth. "Sure. Good to have you back." The festival began. Folk, blues, reggae and rock acts streamed on and off the stage until the families went home to tuck in their kids. The night belonged to rappers. When it came time for Tony's set, the crowd drifted towards the concession stands and port-a-johns after the second song. Tony's set lasted twenty-five minutes, but to Austin, it seemed two hours. He smoked two cigarettes, glancing between puffs at the star watching him from beyond the city's haze. Finally, Tony burst backstage and threw his arm over his shoulder. "Man," he said with a laugh, "you were loving right. Best of luck." Austin grabbed Tony's shirt as he turned towards the hospitality tent. "Remember your promise?" he said. Austin felt Kamaq's presence pass through his mind, a hum that was an echo of an echo, yet overwhelmed his every sense. Tony jolted away from his friend and stared at him like a cockroach had crawled from his mouth. "What was that?" he gasped. "Keep just offstage." Austin walked on. As he took his position, he could not see Kamaq, but even through the glare of stage lights, he felt the star's gaze. He tore through his set, rapping No Sleep songs the crowd hadn't heard live in a year. Too many cigarettes and the Antiplano's relentless dust had roughened his voice, but he did not miss a beat. The crowd surged and cheered. His set ended with a roar of applause, and Austin trembling with fear and joy. Tony stood just offstage, scanning the crowd. Reese, who'd taken over emcee duties, stepped onstage, joining the applause. "Listen," Austin said, "this is important." We didn't sign up for no armageddon but that's what we're gettin. Kamaq has risen! And as the devils take position, we all sleep, lie and- Reese tore out the PA's cables. A murmur rose. Tony rushed the PA. Austin felt Hagaat again. In a voice greater than his own, he bellowed the prophecy. Kamaq has risen! War is coming! A red tide from space. War! To subjugate the human race. Kamaq has risen! A gun barrel gleamed at the edge of his vision. Reese, eyes bulging behind her cat-eye glasses, gripped a pistol with both hands. Tony stepped between them and seized her wrists. Children of Inti! Drop your weapons, let the false world die! The gun jumped off twice. Lights exploded above Austin, showering him in sparks. Children of Inti! Murder your false egos and pray to the sky! Kamaq will build our golden road! Kamaq has risen! The gunshots had sent the crowd to the fences. Austin noticed a few look up and watch a golden ribbon flicker as it wound through the sky towards Kamaq. Despite the glorious vision, he felt heavy with shame. He feared that few among them would heed his warning. He remembered Tony. Austin stumbled away from the lights, gasping for breath. He shuddered with relief when he saw that Tony had pinned Reese to the ground and kicked away the gun. Foam issued from Reese lips. She snapped her teeth. "What is this poo poo?" Tony roared. "I'm really sorry, man. The world is changing, and you're part of the change now. We must find the other prophets and form an army." "gently caress your peyote bullshit! Where's the cops?" Concert security swarmed them and pried them apart. Reese bit the guard and made a dash for the gun. Austin tackled her. Her head struck an amp, and she stopped moving. Kamaq be praised, the police pressed no charges against Austin. He and Tony stumbled out of the station. The sun rose on a new day, just like any other. It was done. Not well, but close enough.
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Aug 17, 2014 18:28
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