Archive for July, 2012

Chronicles of the lost tribe

Posted in Short fiction stories with tags , , , , , , on 21/07/2012 by Cindy Vaskova

As obvious this flash came out too late, for which I apologize again. I took the liberty of delivering it in longer length for that reason. I do hope all that will read it will enjoy.

Chronicles of the lost tribe

13,000 B.C.

 

Time had passed. Darkness had been replaced by light for many rounds and the winds blew cold, and the winds blew warm. The nomads from an unnamed continent had been traveling for many moons and suns but they were not to stop until their god, whom they called Meškwaanemwa had spoken to the holy man Aru and had pointed their place of rest.

Now the nomads were no longer nomads but a small tribe with a village of tents.

But when they settled Meškwaanemwa did no longer speak to Aru. The holy man performed rituals, and burned herbs that colored the flames yellow-green and filled his tent with sharp and lasting smell, and he burned bones of small animals until they crunched, but still Meškwaanemwa refused to speak to Aru and the tribe. For that the men and women feared that ill luck and death might strike the village.

Aru then thought of the reason why their god is angry and silent. In this new land the tribe had not yet named him properly, with a blood sacrifice and a ritual of the young becoming one of the old. Aru called for the war leader Balgyn who was a tall and strong man with braided hair, and asked him to prepare a sacrificial hunt in the name of Meškwaanemwa, the Red one. Aru had sensed a storm in one of his trances, a storm that will cease the tribe from existing. He prayed for the hunt to be pleasing and to calm their god.

For the praising to work though Balgyn was bound to find a boy who had not yet come of age to be a man. The scout’s youngest son Tolegen, who was a slim but fast child, was soon to become a hunter of his tribe and today was the day his initiation was set to begin and end. He was told to bring enough food to feed the whole tribe and to bring a suitable offering of raw red meat to place before the bones and skull of Meškwaanemwa and name the prey in the name of the god.

Yeleu, the scout, who was a greying but still strong and capable to trace and hunt, gave his son a spear of hard wood and a sharp arrow stone peak. He was the one to escort his son and tell him if the offering is good or not. Tolegen’s mother Kulai painted his face in the marks of the star-gods to protect him. She wrote an ancient proverb on his chest and arms to give him the strength of a thousand wolves in the hunt. Aru, the priest gave him an amulet from the homeland to lead him to where the prey sleeps.

The young boy was proud but feared. “A man of our tribe does not fear. He speaks with bear roars, he weights like a mammoth, and he is strong like the Red one” his father Yeleu told him.

The two of them left the circle of tents to journey in the tundra. If by sunrise Tolegen had not returned with the gifts he was to be banished from the village for insulting their god.

Yeleu carried his atlatl* over one shoulder and a spear in one hand. He was not to interfere in the hunt unless his own life was threatened. Tolegen was allowed to die and his death would be as well a suitable sacrifice in the Blood ritual.

As the two progressed, passing by wild life and streams and small ponds, Tolegen pointed a few smaller inhabitants of the tundra, but Yeleu shook his head in disapproval. For the feast of a tribe, not a large one, but yet with many to feed Tolegen had to catch a fitting and large prey and yet one that was in taste of the god. “Raw red meet” Aru the priest had told him, “red as the face of Meškwaanemwa”.

By a lake, which captured a descending sun’s burning but yet fading colors, Tolegen spotted a horned beast, fat and large. He thought its crown to be a good totem and its meet to be red as the tongue licking the water. Yeleu approved and knelt aside, only watching his son, the boy lurking like an animal himself, spear held high, muscles tight and ready to throw. In the art of the tribe the sharp edge had to pierce the neck in one hit.

The antler raised its beautiful head, his silky brown fur wet. Tolegen froze few feet away, still far from reach and watched as the black eyes of the animal enlarge in fear and then before he could react he watched the antler run in panic and disappear in the woods.

Yeleu stood up confused.

As the body of the sun was almost hidden from their eyes a flying flame fell from the sky in a flash and collided with the soil somewhere ahead in a burst of bright, white light that blinded Tolegen and Yeleu for a mere moment. But all was soundless.

When the surrounding became visible again they only saw an upcoming night and heard nothing but more silence, an unsettling one.

Yeleu felt fear, but he knew also what his father had told him, and that was that only the Gods roam the heavens and above, and that falling lights meant the soul of a God is released to enter the realm of mortals and seek something from them. As one of the elders of the village he knew that he was to welcome the fallen one and lead him back to his tribe. But Yeleu feared now mostly because he had never seen a God before.

He led his son further into the pine green womb of Mother Nature; two barefooted men with skins of wild animals and painted faces. In the dark though, their colors were invisible.

Ahead of them a fragile glow chased away the night. It called for Tolegen and Yeleu to come closer. And when they did, before them they found an egg – shaped large object that was no stone, nor wood. It was still glimmering but less than before. Its smooth surface was cracked in one place, and from there in heavy drops, dripped tick blue liquid. To Yeleu and Tolegen it was unfamiliar and they stood cautious away from the crashed trees and dug hole in which the egg-shaped object rested. But it was something in front of it, something that lay in the puddle of blue mass that made Yeleu gasp and point his spear.

A small and slim body was placed there, that was not a man, nor an animal. It was a grey color as fading ashes are and was covered in saliva as a newly born baby is. It had an enlarged skull shaped head. Its skin was very transparent and the bones were visible at places. Yeleu knew the skeleton of a man, and he knew the skeleton of a child, but this was different. Its spine was sharp, and where its torso ended an excrescence like a tail was barely formed but still visible. Its hands were short and with only two fingers. Tolegen slid down into the hole before his father could speak up. He observed the small creature from a distance. It had no eyes, not yet and no ears. Its mouth was vertical and only a tin line. Tolegen was surprised of the vision of a god before him. He was in many ways odd and different from how his tribe had painted the Gods back in the homelands which they had left. He was no animal, no beast of the forest. Tolegen took a step closer. He knelt and touched the body first with his spear. It didn’t move. Then he reached a hand and let his fingers caress the skin. It was cold and hard. Dead. He took some of the blue liquid on the tip of his fingers and took it close to his nose. It didn’t smell like anything. Tolegen brushed it off his cloth and turned to his father.

“We should bring his remains to the tribe and ask Meškwaanemwa what to do with the body of his sky brother” said Tolegen. “The gods will be angered if we leave him here to be food of the wolves and bears”

Yeleu said nothing, but he helped his son carry the body wrapped in Tolegen’s cloth.

They soon came back to the village with no hunt in hands. Yeleu told Kulai they need Aru’s help, for the priest was the voice of Meškwaanemwa here on Earth.

In the holy tent of the priest the bones and skull of the god were placed on a wooden pillar. They were clothed in the great wolf’s skin that was painted red. In the bottom of the pillar small gifts were placed by the tribe members asking favors from their god. Aru was sitting before a small fire, throwing lichen and leafs and wild flowers into the flames, breathing in their scent and washing his face in the grey, eye-watering smoke.

Yeleu and Tolegen entered the sacred area and knelt before Aru, Yeleu placing the small body before the priest.

“It is a God we found priest Aru, a God that came from the sky while the sun was running away for his sleep. He entered our place in the world but died, for he was fragile and weak. Tell us priest is this an omen for us? Is it bad?”

Aru unwrapped the cloth and gave a sudden cry of fear. He stood up and begun to mumble in the language of his ancestors while picking herbs from a bag by the altar. His old hands threw the herbs in the fast building flames of the fire, still mumbling what now sounded like a song. Then he took a cup filled with the fat of an animal sacrificed fifty moons ago and with a stick he pushed it into the fire. He took the spear from Tolegen and cut his wrist, then he cut Tolegen’s wrist and gathered the blood in another wooden cup. The drops he gave to the hungry flames in libation for the god. Then the priest sat again and painted his fingers with the remaining blood, drew a round symbol on his forehead and breathed in the scent of what the flames were fed with.

His eyes turned white and his voice ceased to mumble. His shook viciously, until the body of the priest now in trance stood up and slowly moved to stand before Meškwaanemwa’s skull. Aru placed a hand upon the white bone and spoke with a distant voice:

“It has come the day in which the skies speak their words. Tolegen and Yeleu have brought their warnings to this tribe”

“What is the god’s warning? What will happen to our tribe?” asked Yeleu.

Aru took a deep breath that felt like wind coming through the tent.

“Aru had sensed a storm and a storm had come in the face of an infant god. It will begin soon but will end sooner”

“Our tribe has warriors that are prepared to face any threat. Are other men coming for us? Are beasts coming for us?” said Tolegen.

Aru shook his head

“It is not fear of men, nor fear of beasts. It is beyond any. Meškwaanemwa the Red one has spoken his final words to the people of this tribe. You will be forgotten and others will settle where your bones lie and they will take me as their god and reclaim me from the ashes of your falling. But no one will know of you and your men, your children and your women. For the curse is strong upon you. You will face death before the morning comes and the boy will be first to die before the eyes of his father Yeleu.”

Aru fell to his knees, catching his breath, his eyes burning but back to their normal onyx color. He stared back at the two men and spoke to them with a voice that sounded twice his age.

“What have you brought to us?”

Tolegen had no words. He only stared down at the ugly body of a dead god.

***

As Meškwaanemwa had predicted before the dawn came Tolegen died and soon after the whole village was dead.

Time passed and the path of another nomadic tribe crossed the hidden graveyard of the once inhabiting tribe. They found no bodies, for each member of the tribe had disintegrated within hours becoming dust and then nothing. The new settlers with black animal skins and red faces found only a skull of a great wolf wrapped in old and fainted red wolf skin, and because they had long-lost their own God claimed this totem to be their own.

 

 

 

 *atlatl -  spearthrower, an early introduction to the bow and arrow combination

 

 

 

 

 

Moscow

Posted in Flash stories, Short fiction stories with tags , , , , , , on 13/07/2012 by Cindy Vaskova

Moscow 

 

It was Wednesday, October 12, 1965 when Nikolay Ogidin received a death letter with a fixed date, hour and place.

He packed nothing. From a stack of fake passports he chose one with the name of Gregory Almond, age 55, address W. 85th St, Manhattan, New York. The others he made sure no one will ever find.

He took enough money with him, the letter, few document papers and one rusty key on a chain.

He made a call from the phone booth two blocks away from his apartment and booked a plane ticket to Moscow. Mr. Gregory Almond’s strongly ill condition by medical record and immediate need of treatment in a Moscow hospital by recommendation assured him a flight late this evening.

Truth be told, Nikolay found himself back in the Mother country sooner than he, or the ones above him had planned. Only one person knew about his arrival and that was the man who had sent him an invitation to his own death.

October 13th; Belorussky Station; 20:30

 P.

Nikolay was going to be there at the exact time. He knew who had come for him after 26 years. A part of him expected it to happen, even this late. He understood the motives of his possible assassin. The other one hoped it would never come to this moment, mostly because he would never allow himself to get killed.

He would kill instead.

He walked over to a clothes shop and bought himself a nice black Trapper hat made of mouton sheepskin, a pair of gloves and a long black coat. He changed in the dressing room. His old clothing were put in a bag and given to him.

This year the winter had struck mercilessly upon the Russian nation and Moscow was already frozen and silent. Once his head was protected from the cold Nikolay allowed himself one more detour. He walked, just like he had once, two decades ago, or maybe more, and stopped in the chilling night to glance over at the Red Square. Saint Basil’s Cathedral erected before him, its bonfire flames rising into the sky touching it with shapes and colors unlike any in other Russian architecture. He took a few more steps. If Nikolay had time right now he would have visited Kremlin, or pass under the gates of Kitai-gorod. But he didn’t have any. He paid his long forgotten tributes and spat once on the square that wasn’t red. Once he had painted it so.

Nikolay tucked himself in his long, black coat and set his mind in motion to carry out what may turn out to be, his last mission.

He disposed of Gregory Almond, watching the face in the photo writhing in the fire and then became Ogidin again, fully and only Ogidin. He was so used to being someone else that he had forgotten what it feels to him. He dumped his old American clothing. Now Ogidin was a greying old wolf, hungry for a hunt in the night.

Nikolay quickened his pace down the slippery sidewalks. Somewhere in the distance the train was thundering. He reached his inner pocket and took out the rusty key, holding it tight in his gloved palm. His breath came out in raspy, thirsty for cold air gasps. He was starting to really feel the weight of his age.

The alleys, as he had learned over in the USA, were where he could disappear, staying out of the police watch’s eyes and away from the unwanted attention of late citizens.

The narrow back streets took him to a mangled indoor storage at a small local factory that had ceased manufacturing years before he left Moscow. He unlocked one of the containers owned by a long dead man.

It was dark inside but he didn’t need light to find what he was looking for.

He knelt and picked up something large and heavy wrapped in leather. Next to it he found a smaller but long package. Nikolay hid them both underneath his coat and proceeded.

His watch was showing 20:10. He chose the path through the park. Only then and there he removed the leather to reveal a large crossbow, and there did he unwrap the other package showing three silvery quarrels. Ogidin proudly held the weapon in his hands. Nasq had been taking good care of his deadly toy.

He took one quarrel and loaded it carefully. He touched the tip and felt sharp pain. Blooded dot started forming on his finger. Was he really going to carry this one out? Was he really going to kill the man that was once that little frightened blond boy sent alone on a long travel to London after his father was murdered?

Nikolay had no choice but to remove him. No one that seeks vengeance truly succeeds. And no one who walks away from the program really stays alive.

As he walked in large paces Nikolay remembered the departing train in 1939 and how Pyotr was screaming his name from the window. His voice was so fragile that the wind had taken it away. Nikolay wondered for the first time what had the boy been saying.

Could it have been “I will find you and make you pay?”

20:20. Nikolay arrived at Belorussky Station

* * *

Pyotr Andreev now Peter Ordway was smoking a cigarette at the roof of the train station. His sniper rifle rested next to him. 20:25. Ogidin was probably here, lurking somewhere, looking for a small boy with daddy issues. Peter had found him, after all these years of searching. He had gone through a great deal of dead man telling stories to find his Manhattan address and sent him a letter. He knew Ogidin would figure out who was the sender.

A bounty hunt was probably set on his head from the British Intelligence, but he didn’t care. After this he would disappear so deep underground their best spies won’t be able find him.

Now he needed rest. He needed vengeance on the man who murdered his father in cold blood and took him away from his sister telling her little Pyotr is dead.

The arrows on his watch aligned with the death hour of Nikolay “Chyronoy Voron*” Ogidin.

Peter took position.  “There you are”

* * *

Nikolay Ogidin stepped in the light. The train station was empty this night, except for the lone figure of a tall blond man standing with his back to Nikolay.

“Пётр, я рад видеть тебе снова, и на русской земле. Скажи мне, почему ты хочешь мою смерть?**

The man turned around, an unfamilir face, a smoke smoldering between his gloved fingers, the little orange flame burning in the night. He spoke in a deep voice with a London accent.

“Peter sends his best…Nikolay Ogidin

Nikolay backed but the fire was charged and it echoed loud. Split seconds from it a quarrel escaped with a ping, revealing its flying body in the lights of the train station. The two met somewhere, before a gasp of surprise escaped someone’s mouth into the Moscow night.

“не слышны в саду…. даже шорох…..все здесь замерло до утра,

если б знали вы, как мне дороги……Подмосковные вечера…..”*** 

 

 

 

______________________________________________

*Black Raven

** Pyotr, I’m glad to see you again, and on Russian soil. Tell me, why do you want my death?”

***Not even a whisper is to be heard in the garden,

Everything has calmed down until dawn.

If you only knew how dear they are to me,

The evenings near Moscow!

from Moscow Nights by Vasily Solovyov-Sedoi and Mikhail Matusovsky; 1955

The Architect

Posted in Flash stories, Short fiction stories with tags , , , , , on 10/07/2012 by Cindy Vaskova

Tuesday flash!

The Architect

For the one who lives in darkness his existence equals peace. All the elements important float in vivid colors, visible to reach and touch. Beautiful is not a word enough to illustrate. It’s everything and nothing.

There is no music, not a tone, but one could draw it along the depths of the sheltering blackness in which embrace his thoughts rest. The music will then form. Instruments will tease the ear with joy; a pleasurable sensation created by cords and strings and drums; rhythms that make the mind tremble and the body lose itself in the experience of a burning rapture.

But still it is silence, pure and uninterrupted. Music is silence.

And all the answers are born in its womb, clear and easy to comprehend.

All that is known has been calculated or predicted.  Prevented or allowed. Harmony. All is known.

Calm before a storm goes the tale. Distortion overtakes as thunders of subconscious shoutings emerge from the vastness.

Then a question forms. It comes, throwing an eternal asking; a foul repeating that nests itself in the peace and comfort. It growls until there is no space for anything else. It consumes the silent existence, becoming the very existence. It’s new and scares, too inpatient, too strong. The Universe sends it. There is no answer for it. It’s yet to be built, manufactured, created.  The process though is delicate for this question asks the most impossible and difficult to deliver truth – life or death?

Life…

Death…

The future is unknown.

But I, as the deliverer of such tragic or birth giving news am bound to discover what lies ahead.

I am awake. I am obedient to my purpose.

I allow myself to provoke the question and it shatters to more pieces, smaller and smaller spreading into the wilderness of the mind.

I collect them one by one, particles that convey something big. Enlightenment.

I begin to build a mosaic which pieces I need to fit in, find a place, create a meaning and give importance to. I do as asked.

I feel…rewarded by this opportunity to play my part. My awakening has been long waited.

This task seems to grow into an odd familiarity. I search my vocabulary for a suitable word to depict what it stands for. Friendship. Bondage. Symbiosis.

It leaks into my eternity and I respond to its presence with caring and attention one shows to a precious object.

I crave to see it done, not only by the rules of the Cosmos law but my own long forgotten desire to create and father an outcome, name it mine.

I am forbidden to trespass into the future and observe the finished canvas, forbidden to learn the truth before the time written and perfectly measured comes.

I can only see blurred images, smeared colors and not a word.

Soon. I can sense the moment narrowing itself and traveling towards me bringing the revelation.

For the one in hold of all the answers, I wonder what power keeps this concealed so well.

I connect the dots, tie up the threads, tighten up the knots and strengthen the puzzle, the code of the Universe pushing it over the edge, making it crack faster.

Slowly, in its own time it arranges. The stillness of my world alerts me that it is finished. The truth is revealed. I remain motionless until all the particles, all the components are assembled.

Then I open my eyes to see more clearly, to let in light and air. I open them to see what I have found, what I have created from what the Universe and its stars have given me. I wait to see beauty and emotion, peace and love, future and prosper. I wait to claim it mine and sleep again knowing I am fulfilled.

I stare in search of a purpose. I stare too long. But how?! Why this? How can it be real, possible?

Disappointment pierces through me, yes that is how it feels, and darkens my mood while tears of anger and inner betrayal burn hot in my all-seeing eyes. I scream without a voice and curse with cries of pain “The Architect has failed!”. I scream for all to comprehend and witness my mistake. How could I’ve done this? My whole existence trembles, shattering in bits. I am crushed underneath the spoken will of the Universal answer. I am broken.

Malfunction. Insanity. Sickness.

Living to deliver hope, now simply dying in the arms of a chaos. Existing to provide each answer, now fading in shame before the vision of an Apocalypse.

The storm I have created is here.

* * *

“He’s off the charts! Bloody hell, I have never seen him like this.”

Johnson P. leading specialist in project “Zekko” took his glasses off then put them back again. He couldn’t believe his eyes. They had finally received a real prediction, a real answer, one which question wasn’t fabricated by their machines. This was the real thing. This was contact. He smiled to the success. Predisposing the subject to wider receiving had proved to work. Now all they needed was the information.

Stacey K. assistant specialist in project “Zekko” hugged herself and watched through the glass how something alien struggles to live while begging to die. She didn’t like this. She was afraid of this sudden aggression towards oneself, of the cries so human and the metallic face convulsing from the malfunction of the brain. Stacey placed her hand on the glass separating her from the mechanical angel. “The last of its kind”

Red alert was screaming through the facility halls, the vital signs of the “angel” were threatening to cease their function any second.

“Damn it! We have to know what he saw! We need the source and the answer!” Johnson smashed his fist next to the monitor.

Then the answer came leaving all of them breathless. One word was spoken. One truth was given. One future awaiting all was revealed.

Apocalypse

Old friends

Posted in Flash stories, Short fiction stories with tags , , , , on 07/07/2012 by Cindy Vaskova

This one was done late, and in a very short amount of time thus the absence of it in the Collector, and for all that I apologize. It’s rough around the edges, bit poor but I hope it will work as a mostly fun read for this late Saturday afternoon.

Old friends

 

Garry Radford parked his brand new blue Chevy 69’ truck outside the gas station.  The dusty face of the country side and the old vintage stickers of naked women glued to the gas columns reflected in the dark surface of his sunglasses.

He got out of his vehicle into the sizzling day, a few small rocks crunching beneath his boots.  He wiped the sweaty drops from his forehead and put on his hat.

“Damn hot today”.

He walked around the truck and placed his hands on the passenger door to look down at his nine-year old son Henry.

“I’m gonna go inside to talk to Uncle Bill. Now I don’t wanna be disturbed during that time. See that convenience store? –Garry pointed the blue door of a small building next to the gas station – You can go and buy yourself some candy while I’m busy. – Garry handed the boy a dollar – Don’t go anywhere else until I come and pick you up, you got it?” –Henry nodded – “Yes sir.”

“Good boy. Now hop out.”

And Henry did. He ran straight to the store without hesitating on his father’s words. That he had tried once and then he had met with Mr. Belt. But more than that…he had met Uncle Bill who was everything else but an uncle to him and that man he didn’t want to see twice. There was something freaky about the way he talked to Henry, how he observed the boy. Like a snake lurking upon a rat.

The boy hurried.

The bell above the door shook and rang loudly when Henry entered the store. A fan by the door was chasing away the heat and spreading coolness inside.  The middle aged lady behind the counter ignored the presence of Henry and continued reading her magazine, filling the boring hours at work with spicy world gossip. Henry didn’t bother to say “good afternoon” and stood before the row with candy choosing from the rather poor choice.

Nevertheless he found the desired treats and joyfully filled his hands with dozen red and orange gums which flavor doesn’t go away even after hours of chewing! Nope! Never! , and chocolate bars that he felt melting in the wrappers. He bought a bag of mint candy for a few cents and a nice cold bottle of soda.

But as any kid Henry was impatient, and even the thought of his angry father couldn’t keep him inside the convenience store, so once he was done with buying candy he pushed the door, listened to the bell ring again and went into the sun.

He found himself a nice spot from where he could see the door to uncle Bill’s office at the gas station and sat on the ground enjoying his sweets.

Henry raised his head to check the door again but something else caught his eye and made him put away his mints.

From down the highway a shadowy figure was coming towards the gas station. It was moving slow and was far and Henry couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. He taught “A hitchhiker” and turned his eyes away.

“Hey boy” .

Henry jumped to his feet, the candy falling to the ground and rolling away in the dust. The shadowy figure was standing before him, a tall slim man with sharp features. His face was dirty, his skin grey. It looked oddly burned and was peeling at some places. The man had a greying beard that barely hid a deep, ugly scar on his left cheek. Henry couldn’t see his eyes because of the cowboy hat hiding them but felt them on himself. The stranger’s voice was raspy, no more like rusty, as if he hadn’t spoken in years. It had something old in it, the pronunciation of the words perhaps, the accent.  The whole vision of this man was old- he looked like he was taken out from a 40’s western movie. He had the belts, but the guns were missing; a tattoo on his knuckles that looked like a convicts. Henry thought he looked cool but at the same time scary.

“Cat got your tongue boy? You mute?”

” No sir”  Henry shook his head

“Do you know a man by the name of Billy McCarty?”

Henry had heard that name. His father had called Uncle Bill, Billy McCarty ones.

” I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

And the stranger laughed something between that sounded like a dry bark and the cough of a smoker. He took a step closer. Henry could smell dust on him, dust and whiskey. The boy took a step back.

“Me kid, I ain’t no stranger around these parts. Me and Billy go way back. We’re old friends. I just wanna drop by and say “hello”. Do ya think you can tell me where he’s at?”

Henry was unsure what to say. What if his father gets angry at him for telling? But at the same time this man made him feel uneasy. Henry felt he might pee his pants in a minute.

He reached his hand a pointed towards the gas station and the office of Uncle Bill.

“Much appreciated kid.”

The stranger tipped his hat and grinned at Henry.

The boy watched him walk to where his father was and maybe knew what was about to happen. But his mind was too busy and couldn’t think of anything else but the burning sparkle in those bright red eyes and the smile with two sharp teeth grinning viciously at him.

Don’t believe in God till you need saving

Posted in Flash stories, Short fiction stories with tags , , , , , on 01/07/2012 by Cindy Vaskova

Forgot I wanted to share this drabble on my blog, written originally for the new home of Friday Predictions in  Phil Ambler ‘s lovely blog. The three words used were Wing, Immortal & Facet.   

Here you have it:

Don’t believe in God till you need saving

Immortal you say? Then you add fun.

But no fun I read on your wooden expression, your words quiet facet but in lack of persuasion.

What good will I have in being immortal when the world shall
continue to spin out of order?

Now you throw in some punches, verbal of course, and tell me that with the price there too come some props.

Wings you say? I wonder… Always fancied to fly to Atlanta.

Envision that freedom…

Agreed!
Let’s seal this gather with Mr. J Walker!

Payment? Course’, tell how much green?

What… my soul?!

Oh, curse my greed…

FlashTold

Ideas Told in a Flash

The Crow Comics

All the comics in one collection

Eat This

"I've been through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened." Mark Twain

The Importance of Being Edited

Avoiding the embarrassment of shoddy grammar, anemic style, and lazy punctuation

300 stories

A one-year mission to produce 300 stories in 300 words (or less)

A Round of Words in 80 Days

The Writing Challenge That Knows You Have A Life

Adult & Teen Fiction

Read on and I will show you another world within this one....

This Side....Over Yonder

Stories and Musings by Deanna Schrayer

Eli Glasman

Blog of Australian author Eli Glasman

Crass Sophisticate

An Independent, Alternative Comic Book

Gotta Find a Home

The plight of the homeless

Interesting Literature

A Library of Literary Interestingness

GLITTERING SCRIVENER

MARIA DAHVANA HEADLEY - WRITER

The Obsessive Bookseller

Speculative Fiction Book Reviews by Niki Hawkes (for those in need of some seriously good reading)!

The Writerly Reader

Opinions about Books and Writing and other things

PressK1dz

We're time-rich and cash-poor. And we peekaboo.

TwistedSifter

The Best of the visual Web, sifted, sorted and summarized

Till Graduation

Create the change, be productive!

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 725 other followers

%d bloggers like this: