The Collapse -Reworked-
The blast was coming.
Arial wiped the rain from her tapered eyes. She looked down the blocks at the bright white, blue detailed, foot of the League capital building. She put a hand above her eyes to wipe the tips of her hair free of her face. They had been tinting the scene, as if through a layer of port wine, now she brushed them away. She looked up, and up. The lookout girl's eyes slowly tracked their way along the soft curves of the building. In this weather its color was almost the same brown as her eyes. She looked past windows, decorations, symbols of the various powers, turrets, and even the surveillance cameras. The peak of the building seemed to rise like some vast organic lance, stabbing into the sky. Past it were more of the same white lances, even darker in the night, a round table with knights of stone and swords larger than even a giant could hold. Lightning flashed and threw everything into dark relief against an angry sky that seemed ready to switch from rain to snow.
Leave Land BehindUnder the sea, we all will retreat
sinking down Queens Boulevard and its adjacent streets.
We swim through darkness and we fall from light
we have long ago passed over riparian escape routes by night.
In the distance, ladyfingers poke steamily through volcanic cover
yet they have no ties, to fix knots upon, or the glow for their lover.
Though the low hum of the machines mechanically soothes us in our descent
tonight we eat spinach.
6x6 Join the Revolution1. Gun cocked, detective sees dead wife.
2. "What does this big red butto-"
3. DC paper: sniper rifle, slightly used.
4. Robot seeks new heart, preferably human.
5. "The baby isn't human, get gun."
6. Writer starts revolution, apocalypse then ensues.
Search Word - LostSearch Word - Lost
It's funny what you think of before going into mortal danger. Anyone who tells you that their life flashed before their eyes is bullshitting you. Who the hell remembers their entire life anyway? Chances are they're covering up something far more embarrassing... or depressing. Me? I'd never feed you a straight line like that. I was going into mortal danger and my life most certainly did not flash before my eyes. No, I thought of the best parts. Neither the perfect moments, (what few of them I have) nor the worse moments; (because who the hell would want to think of those) I thought of the moments that were good, that I wished lasted longer. I was facing death and the truth is I was filled with nostalgic regret. If I were to go into the flashbacks you'd probably be disgusted. I know I was. (Though for more reasons than my sappy memories) The truth is... most of what I was thinking about was her. This little narrative has a lot to do with a lot of things. There are many
Skittles, Taste The...How appropriate that I should get a Skittles this color. The S fades into the background and the background fades into the top of my laptop. Somewhere in the back of my mind I'm worrying that the damn thing is going to melt and leave an alien head of melted Skittle in my 'on' button. But really all I can think about is what I always think about when I see Skittles – "Shittles, taste the outhouse" – a long time (and very stupid) joke that will probably still come up again sometime in the future between those of us who were privy to it.
Back in the day, I didn't have a working TV, I didn't watch ads, or shows, or cartoons. After we moved from Queens I stopped getting TV reception on most channels and I missed out for most of what led to the popular mindset of the time. Even if I had, I really never paid that much attention to TV ads anyway. So I did most of the TV watching of my youth at other people's houses. Mostly friends. One day a few of us were watching TV, I don't even remember wh
In the end, it comes down to one thing. A body. Sometimes you start a bit higher than that. Police work has all sorts of ways to get down to that last factor. It always ends up as a body though, dead or alive. When you're staring down at that body, you know exactly what you should have done, when you should have done it, who you should have left alone and who you should have shot. When the body is lying there in front of you and there's nothing left to do, you have only regrets. Just as the body had its life flash before its eyes, you have what came before flash by yours, and you've never done enough.
In Paris, no day is like another. The name is Barthelemy Karas. If you're my enemy, just Karas is fine. Today seems my day to be surrounded by enemies. To my right is Police Chief Bravura. Today, he dragged me out of bed early, shoved me into a case with cruel possibilities, thick with players. I don't play well. To my left, Paul Delienbach, Vice President of Ava
Conduct the DayConduct the Day
The fires in the nearby ammo stores provided the percussion. A loud, quick, rat-a-tat-tat to call out the sun. Bislane climbed to the top of the half-mangled truck that was providing her and her sister with shelter and looked out across the valley, surveying her awaiting Orchestra, insuring that they were ready. She stretched out her short arms, tapping the tarnished exhaust pipe beside her. The fires on the edge of the horizon that stretched out before her came to a crescendo that made them burn as bright as the coming dawn.
She brought up her hands with the sound and then let stubby fingers lead her arm down, stopping the echoing thunder. The girl twirled her finger and her winds section, the high pitched reedy sounds of far away tracers flying through the air, began to play. Then came the brass, the low deep wind reverberating through the metallic husks around her. Slowly, ever so slowly, the sun heard her music welcoming it, and the light began to rise. Then
She stood before him, her figure an outline of the Parisian night. The wind blew. Her scarf, like some sort of animal thing, fluttered, reaching out into the night, and passed over her face to reveal clear eyes like a frozen lake, hard, but with depth, just like her sister's.
"She's missing." Those two words carried it all. Karas, looking at her from the small pool of light underneath the door lamp, was sure she already knew. He came anyway, he wanted, no, he needed, her help.
Turning, she looked out from the balcony into the black sky, seeming to study the formation of lights that was the Eiffel tower. "You know the only good thing about being stuck in Caucasia?" She replied conversationally. Like this was any other night, like there was no desperate search, like the two of them, Karas and Bislane, weren't, by definition, opposed. "The only good thing was my sister. We were as close as any two people could be back then." A murmur, "War does that you know," and then, "