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Chapter Two: Fallen Heroes (or, the chapter in which the chosen ones get their butts kicked by a little girl.)
As he flew under the gigantic subtitle, Dejwin knew that he had to hurry, for the first and foremost reason that subtitles never lie. Or they do not normally, in any case.
Dejwin glared around, trying to find the mysterious source of the disembodied voice. "So is it lying or not?"
No, it is not lying this time. Please, though, can you try not to be so..so, well obvious when you are talking to me? It generally does not work well when characters talk to the author.
"Well who am I supposed to talk to?" He questioned indignantly, "Mr. Clucky? He might be a mutant, but that does not mean he is a good conversationalist."
Well sorry, I am not just going to insert a random character so that you can have someone to talk to. I have this too well planned out for you to go and make a mess of things by making me d
Chapter One: Abdication (or, the chapter in which an old man decides to retire and hands his campaign off to his reluctant son)
Below lay the blue ocean and above spread the clear sky; the horizon was lightest of blue lines far out in the distance. But it was getting closer as the sky and sea passed rapidly by. Even in this paradoxal wonder there was perfection, only marred by a single black speck very close to the horizon. Larger and larger the spot grew until it was recognizable as an island. Blackened shores of old lava flows revealed the nature of the island's formation. If that was not enough of a clue, though, a large, solitary mountain with a caldera like opening where the tip of the mount should have been. Actually, the entire island could be considered part of this monstrosity's slopes.
Rich, black volcanic ash covered the place, all the way up to the peak of the central cone formation. If what was sa
Reflection of a Shooting StarFrosty night air with sky so clear
the Stars look like new.
Bright and twinkling they shine,
surreal luminescence all that keeps
the soft, white world
from drifting into utter Despair.
Their glow dances upon the frozen fabric,
twisting the threads and weave.
Then, as if to stave off the night,
a star shoots forth from the heavens,
Falling to earth in splendor magnified,
and Why? And down in the lake, the sudden
star-burst of four kittens under a lid of ice,
heading to the four corners of nowhere.
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
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