davidsimba
The bus careened down the avenue, he'd no way to stop it now. Once Anne snatched the wheel from the dying man and threw her top out the window this night wasn't going to end on the legal side of the law. The horizon lit up with crying lighting and storm cloud black cars, red and blue lights up and down the intersecting boulevard and parkway. "Geronimo," she pressed forward on the gas and rammed through a red traffic light.
Oh fuck, up pops the chute as a wall of small silver coins hits the pavement and nails jimmy. Bob narrowly escapes due to the convenient umbrella someone had left on his desk this morning. Later that night Bob would stumble out of a bar drunk and find a time machine in his back yard. Ontological loop closed.
Ah here we gather today to punish the heretic of this sacred order, the doctor of truth, the surgeon of wisdom fouled and sullied by his own lack of humanity. For crimes against humanity I sentence you to a lifetime of loneliness and solitude so one day you may know our pain dear doctor.
Honest hearts have nothing to fear while walking down the lonesome road. It is the heart blacken by the stray ink that trembles with every step trying to remember a road they pinched from another travelers map.
It was the strangest thing, he'd glanced over the gem back in the salt mines but he'd never seen it before in this light, twilight, all the colours above and bellow the spectrum. She was perfect, and dark blue with a pinkish hue.
I have to know that these old neural pathways aren't just madman's scribbling late in a manic depressive but otherwise fun night out on the town with the boys and girls binging on life and other drugs. He plugged in his digits to her blue book. The dates match, the details vary, mildly, but it was still there. The old blueprints for the Beast of Twobacks was staring back over its shoulder. Hiding in plain sight.
It was a homely plaque tacked up on the bare wooden walls of the cottage, it was part of a poem an ancestor had made on night while gazing at the stars and dreaming of the future, "..curiouser Strange..."
When asked what one word he would use to describe novelist Cassidy Lennon's career, English professor Dirk Horowitz thought long and hard about it. He took a moment and puffed on his corn cob pipe and milled over the thought like a glass of fine wine or wheat before he huff out the answer: "Failed State."
Her mind was plaid with confabulation, the night before seemed so vivid and textured, every moment before that paled like a waning dream at daybreak collecting his last odd sock before her eyes cracked. This was her second day back in England, after an extended stay on the planet America.
"Thief, thief! Stop him," I'd hear her cry as I flew out the window with her kiss upon my lips and her name in my soul. I stole her fire to light my own bleak borne and I'd never let them catch me in the dark ever again.
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