One night the Chama was in so much pain she totally blew this guy's empathic circuit. He was a kiwi-level groomer and blood guide working on her gum shunt. Is to say trippy to say psychosis-inducing? No. He litter-ly popped a fools' gold and glass tube implant. Micah I think his name was. Now he calls himself Ted. He's like someone who stepped in the The Crack but he didn't.
Oh and the proclivities he is letting show. He even shacked up with the cart man for a weekend, Mthyuh's vomit we call him. They made a pact never to care or introspect, that it was 48 hrs of flesh-only intimacy. Then bff takes Kareer-Kesh anew and the next trek in, never heard of our colega cuz he's been born again.
Now Ted's set up camp in the bottom of Mike's pool like Edie Sedgewick eating daisies. He'll only allow his catty side to come out. If you press him, he just shows teeth. There are always cameras around-- his gourd was popped by a monarca bitch, what'd you think. If there's a record there's a story, simple as that.
So sue me; I refuse to change my pattern. Sue my lungs and loins-- go ahead. Sue my hours and times and foods. Sue my scotch and rude fonkytown wayz. Sue my bones and how they grow. Sue my slaves. Sue my metaphorical twitch. Sue me all day, and sue my tics. Sue me in droves and sue me.
So nice to hear rock n' roll in the Lower Chanks. Someone must be amping up for an exit. A flake mohm and her baby cower in a niche. Does a hole you scratch with your fangers count as a panic room? Someone is bleeding on the strings of a real guitar. Communities open up to picaroz and needles as long as they can watch the whole project launch soon and far.
I'm here as a Missionary of Doom, but it's a good thang. We promote something like healthy recreation. As the Hereafter Looms, why not stock up on favors to the Butt Unappealing?
I watch them toss my fangernails in the chipper. I'm left with these shiny studs, searching to express myself. This is what happens when you get held back a grade. I drool in my desk nest, barely able to stroke keys; my head is spastic, elongated. They have to grant me open release or deal with the stunted mess.
Day after day my neuroskeletal budding triples their urgency, conservatism, likeliness of failure.
Even the teacher helps to heave my meat scoops into the dumpster. "These suckers are like cement Jai-Alai paddles," is his comment. "They actually are capable of something like sucking," informs a devotee of the Ultimate Worship Group. Then kicks a darkly bloodstained cuticle fragment into a spin with his steel-toed work boot.
I didn't come to save you, be saved, etc. I came to be saved and your coming saved you. When you came, I was saved, and my coming saved you. Coming saved me same's it did you. I was saved by coming cuz there was someone to come to. Otherwise there would be no coming to, only moving. Someone saved you and it was moving to someone new. You moved until you were coming and thought I could save you. I came without even moving thinking I was coming toward you. Moving toward coming is something we both wanted to do.
kitty came back and won't go home i get mostly teeth with its marking glands or was it the cute gothic girl at the Target sneezing up her bones with some NiQuil
i'm sensitive to your living here, boy you impose an environment of phlegm n' paper toweling it's just that i'm on to your petty cat tricks darling you've got responsibilities around the home now
as a player, you've got a lot of action going south big clouds blow past in the shape of shocking fetiches piñatas burst and reflect in los canales de tu corazón you hide or run when i draw the skin at the cave mouth
Flakes are most likely to repent as the shiny copper fades. It's easier to trace a downward spiral from a downward spiral. Still some would seek healing every big top revival come to town. But Illyn came in the cage of a wooden cart with wheels hacked nearly square. This home was powered by a dog whose eyes glowed red, and wide enough to wear a saddle.
Flakes wandered up and formed a circle because it was something maybe they could eat. It was grotesque, especially cuz its look was fresh, a bright moon gnarled and pocked. Illyn appeared to have broken through the atmosphere and swol'n from the friction. How many times have you rung Our Earth? Do you even know what part of you is where? Your tears spit onto a face we can't relate to; now you need to share our soup?
Why would I want to go to bed if I'm feeling good. The surf is rising not ten feet from my window. Or rather the poo heater came on. But it tends to scare the bats away. They'll strafe the surface, even if you're swimming. They're sonic; electric-motored drones are not bucolic.
Who would want to leave a night to be run by inorganic mechanisms?
My future is a world where the light of sun is borne by alloys only. Only you will be allowed to toast me golden. Humans ought sleep while Mthyuh's organ fires turn the cog. This is time for play.
Tom wears a home-sewn vest over every plaid shirt every day. It's covered in commemorative pins and slogan buttons. Even as he lectures, its beige suede rocks against his arteries. His half-naked students find it obscene, but a heart on his chest puts them at ease during drills and bloodletting. K chicks will often leave purple stains on their seats.
Missy is out on suspension for off-limits vittle. Every re-creature must be protected extra much because they are most likely to be eaten with the smallest pang of conscience. Because they come back, because they must, it seems a venal abuse.
Tho flakes are other matter; academy classmates even graver. Flakes are food for bloodsac only; the grrl in the next seat is your sister in pain. Had Connie stepped in The Crack? Were her tertiary characteristics driving her onto the waiting list for shiv clinic and guided skeletal bursting? Had Connie in fact been a casual associate of Reptily among the rotting alfalfa bales of the Low Chanks long before the filter and the MPS? We measured time in WD then. But it lied.
Imagine all the singing night birds before wide feeding. Now there is only one, and he mocks. Fecundity only breeds more episodes: thumping, wailing, spines. Flakes disappear like soap. Soon only those who rule the skies will have a strip of land. They are proud and unsentimental or grieving. They have paid with burning; they have paid in change. They are tired of thieving, of treating. Now we are their petri dish. Death is a privileged doctor.
Phyllis Lit-Crit Contractor, Embedded for Sports n' Sex Crimes Bugle
When the Hot is on, you step into an embrace with the liquid and keep frogging or gatoring in languid ballet strokes. You have to fight going into a fetal position. In Donna's salt pool, I don't get chalky. She's been working on an autopsy in the living room. My loins feel sore for lack of Winter Stroking. Something about this environment really keeps the buttocks training. I did tri-ceps on the cement stairs holding my knees in the air just Above the Tension. Then I heard her laughing through the sliding screen door. She'd found signs of fatty liver even though it was Mostly Missing.
Now that I am in the Final Stages, change seems dumb. Some say there's been an encroachment of a parallel universe, but I fully doubt it. It's just the ground churning under us, belching new souls. My world is shit because I'm old.
Once I had a game, an angle, an exit; I was up for an ambit, didn't need to score. Now every lit-crit babe with a publishing credit Thinks I'm a door to the afterlife. I can only leave maps and things; I don't really bring much to the way I live except my body and a knife. My world is shit because I murdered Connie.
I sometimes call upon the powers of the universe for no reason. But six nights in a row we smelled smoke curling in the blow hole. Six times we felt our bodies screeming NO. But we are still whole. Connie
While the Chama is in training, I do reconnaissance with flakes. To bring down the affective filter, we build caldron platforms, watch the aurorealis in the twilight, passing giant bongs of shish. All the while I can take the temperature of the chillun while tickling them, whispering passages from Northrup Frye into their pointy ears. Some days She'll ply me for coordinates. After feed school, I'll be using her guide data to find the colonies. I give; the Chama takes. We'll help each other. Phyllis
A cloud changed into dragon shapes and we must have been experiencing some high winds because the whole chank system quaked, and the shadows seemed to turn down, swooping into invisibility. This is the current that rules our skies and protects the Homeland. When hailstones the size of medicine balls start splashing the soup, they make scald lines. Flakes are making bets on target-shaped diagrams and debris field calculations. We expect a big attack soon. Mike
That cat is so mean to me, I think I love him. Scratches his way in, then turns his back. I feed him. He wants to train me and mark my leather bags. Then you see him having lept eight feet show his asshole. And then he leaves me. Been back about 7 times nau.
iout9p2q83751983ngvo3inuv[03947v6n;oqwprettyieut098pictures34576n[qvuglyo3i9words4vun'qoi3nuy9p2q83751my_decaYcreates_homes_for_otheRcreatures_+WE CAN'T HELP LOVING AND WE CAN'T STOP