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Click, ClackThe clock sounded from the wall opposite the reception desk where the young redheaded woman sat biting her nails nervously. Her irises followed the second hand closely, only lagging behind slightly. She knew biting her nails was bad, but it was so close to the hour that she couldn't help it.
Would today be just like yesterday? Or the day before? Maybe today would be a whole new standard on its own. Watching the clock like this was slowly gnawing away at her nerves and psyche. Everyday she would watch the clock for an entire hour before the real hour came, constantly questioning her choice to take this job.
So many maybes came with her simple job. All she really did was sit at the solid black desk in the middle of a large, empty, concrete room. She knew all of the regulars, the agents, the foreign correspondents, she had even met her boss's boss on more than one occasion. She knew everything from the gossip to the personal lives of one-time customers. There was nothing she didn't know a
They had nothing to say to each other. With the wind at their backs and the whole world in front of them, there was nothing to say. The two soldiers watched the scene before them unfold in the half-light of dusk. The striking beauty of the sunset over the desert terrain was overwhelming. With guns in hand, they watched as the choppers moved in over their heads toward their target on the orange-magenta horizon. The black shapes moved gracefully over the brightly colored sky. Soon, the jets were heard overhead. They were moving in for the preemptive strike against an invisible enemy. The chopper hung back as the pilots swooped low like birds of prey, and released their rockets upon the unsuspecting adobe town. Once the smoke began to clear, the air support withdrew to re-arm and allow the ground troops time to move in.
Hovering low, the choppers opened their sides to reveal the strike team. Brave faces waiting their turn to give their last full measure of devotion
.::. will o' th' wisp .::.
"will o' th' wisp"
On a cool crisp autumn evening, the sun passed below the horizon and the clouds had turned a sun-kissed orange above the forest. The sky turned blue around the edges and a deep blur of purple formed above the heads of the forest dwellers below. Stars began to peek out from behind their veils of distance and sunlight and smile down on the dark treetops. The light on the trees and their branches morphed from an orange to a blue gradient as the sun says its good evening to the lonely branches.
A young boy, merely seven, strolls along the forest deer path on his way home. Kicking rocks this way and that, he is oblivious to the cold that is beginning to seep through his day clothing. Something bright caught his eye, looking up, he spied a small light, bobbing up in down like a buoy in the bay near his father's fishing dock. Smiling, the curious boy strays from his well-known deer path and begins to walk toward the light.
Quietly, the boy peeks out from behind a lic
The Glass Upon...::The Glass Upon the Handmade Doily::
Opening the door to his beloved study, a slight blonde with shaggy hair walked in carrying a tin teapot, cup, and saucer. The coloration of the teapot matched his suit and trousers in a way that made the pot blend into his clothing. Walking to the opposite side of the study he loved so much, the emerald eyed Briton delicately placed the piping hot tea on the small wooden tea table. He straitened his back and rubbed the back of his neck. Then he noticed something out of place. A small glass on the side table next to his couch had appeared. He walked over to it quizzically.
Through squinted eyes, the blonde stared intently at the glass on the table. Lowering himself to be parallel to it with balled fists on his hips, we wondered of all the possible reasons it could have had to be there. It was a small clear glass cup set mathematically and theoretically perfectly in the center of the small round table top. The table it self was a rich mahogany
Southern modernizationBlack comedy market economy, banana peel political humour, cards with the cartels, the solution free room service and credit the union. Bolivar twist, ding dong dollar under control, valley of the coin desert with no value. Gangsta paradise, the victims are the people. Big mac and cold conflict interference a part of it all. In little Mexico you’d need a high horse to jump the great border wall that boasts its peak.
Viracocha melts waters unlike those it rose from, making waves of out of metal oceans to overtake the current south, re-steel, re-take, tech-mechs the entire south into neo-Machu Picchu, cyberpunk music moulding, reshaping old society into an new age, iron dynasty, fresh coat for an old, ancient look. The coattails of Quetzalcoatl if he were a modern man pull together the merge of future and long passed past..techno temples and the like.
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