Angst and ChillingA doglike thing sat in a nest of pillows.
A furred pile of bristles and spite hogged the main couch to himself, splayed out yet so still that a chalk outline would be all it would take to convince you of his demise.
A boy with skin like chestnut had his wheelchair parked to the right of the central couch. He beckoned, and a cold soda lifted itself through a hole in the top of the fridge, and hovered gently as it crossed the living room to his waiting hand. There, the tab clicked itself open for him, and the gentle hiss drew the eyes of the couch thing and the pillow thing. He sighed, and another two cans made their own way out of the kitchen.
A man, his coat unbuttoned, and his glasses slightly askew, sat on the other end of the reserve couch from his longest serving friend and colleague, a man old enough to snap when people still called him boy, but young enough that they did. Aaron's hair was the dark mess of someone who cared little for combs or hairdressers, and his feet rested on
#CeilingedSparrow eyed the empty recliner, and let herself fall back. A brief jaunt through the intervening space, and she collapsed into the comfortable chair.
"Rough week?" Staroui intoned, poking at a flat screen.
"Busy. Just saved a kitten from a tree."
His furred brow furrowed.
"The tree was floating five stories up." She added. If he cared, he didn't voice it. Sighing she plucked the remote from her chairs arm and tossed it at his head. He scooched slightly to the right, and then used his shoulder to pin it in place. Damn it. They'd only just gotten it back off of him.
"What are you doing?"
Star tapped and ticked. "Checking for the next thing that drags you out of the house."
"I just got back!"
"It takes you like five seconds to get anywhere in the city. Hah! Your friend's been hitting workshops again." Star said, refusing to lift his head up from the tablet clutched in his paws.
Sparrow planted her face between her hands. "We already let him turn the hangar into an arboreum, I'll t
Where there's fire, there's smoke?Shade
Ordinary people. No weapons carried, so the metal detectors missed the real threat. And then in a flash of light, the three were standing above the crowd, faces hidden hidden behind smiling masks. One of them lifted his hand, and the bank tellers were pulled into the glass. And back. And forward again with a harder impact each time. A man had lunged for one of them, stabbed him with a pocket knife. Just a laugh and this horrible flickering as he snapped his own neck around to look at the idiot who tried to play hero, before unhinging his jaw and swallowing him whole. The final one looked from camera to camera, turning them to watch.
"Jackie, what is this I'm reading?"
The flustered teacher had held her back. Every second the lines for lunch would get longer.
"Well you said write what we thought kinetics would do to the world."
"I said write the sort of societal effects would result from the development of abilities beyond the normal, not to submit some kind of natu
Kindling Blaise studied Abstract Perfectionist Performance art in the University of Kenharrier (Go Harriers!). What that meant was beyond her understanding. The professor's understanding. A source of befuddlement to the entire university itself, beyond a clerk who’d alighted on a brilliant idea to save a few coins after the government had made student loans that perfect middle ground of screwing over educator and educated. The course had seemed the thing most likely to convince her parents that it was just a waste of money and time, and she was perfectly happy frying food and attending concerts. They feigned interest perfectly. What followed was to be four years of a freakish mixture of interpretive dance, painting with blood and ink, and a lecturer who eventually induced their own heart attack on stage in an attempt at combining every form of art they could think of in one last desperate grasp at what it all meant. Afterwards a clerk in the audience had quit. Neve
My Follower's Bidding: MultiversalotalOnce there was a poor boy.
He would wade into the creeks and lakes about his house, crossing the streets and roads, in search of newts and toads.
He happened on an axolotol, stuffed inside a glistening bottle.
He set it free and watched it run, and caught it again for some fun.
Its skin was night and cold and stygian, and the boy growing bold licked the amphibian.
He saw the world and saw its sun, and saw himself and his wife's son. A different world and different earth, a great mist between the turf.
And further out and further still, world's uncounted.
Mountain forest hill, oceans and seas surmounted. And then he saw his little world and all its feature, within the body of tiny creature.
And all of that and more in there, beneath thin skin without a hair.
It called itself Old Slick, its voice repulsive, the child grow sick. He dropped it and began to cry, for what he saw was meant for I.
The little thing soon wandered off, while the child moaned and coughed.
It crossed the street and