5,4,3,2,1
You won't remember this
Not long now. A shame really.
All because of the accident.
You don't have either the Ends or the Means.
Hell, the Ends justify the Means?
We all know some cheat, especially because they think it won't matter.
What's the point in doing that anyway.
This is no cut and paste to fill the page cheating.
In life (for every other dumb schmuck) you can't cut and paste.
All because of the accident.
6 minutes is all you've got.
It's not like this is even real.
Barely even conscious. Funny that!
It must be SO...
Cleanliness was a virtue. They told him that.
"Who are they?" The others would ask. The others didn't believe in they. But they are there. They must be. Or else, why they tell him that?
They also told him of the magical properties of the string. The others didn't believe in the string, but he convinced them.
you must try the ritual of the string, or it will not work it is powered by nonbelievers
The others were intrigued. Still, they did not believe, but, perhaps, what harm is it to see where this leads?
Of course, the ritual of...
It approached. She shuddered, turned, checked the Subway tunnel in both directions. There was no one there, but the feeling of future graves being trodden on refused, for a few steps, to dissipate.
The voice, like evil chalk on a spotless blackboard, came from behind her. "No, don't turn round. Not yet. You're safe."
The effect was fossilising. Blood cooled, crept, froze. A half remembered step faltered to a stand. Immobilised, she saw her assailant's breath of billow from over her bare shoulder.
"I know you. You don't scare easy. All those horror films. I've seen you. You never flinch...
Travel light, but take everything with you. Pack your life into a suitcase. Compress a room of memories, dreams, nightmares, hopes, pain and happiness, take the few essentials and clear out.
That's what this feels like. I have to choose which of my memories are the most important to me. Pack them away into a suitcase and walk right out that door, never again to see the ones I left behind.
Clothes. A necessity. As many as possible-- I might not have the money to get more for a while.
Toiletries. Also a given.
Books? Well, with three shelves filled,...
In 1921, he flew from the Great Rift Valley. In 1924, he toppled the world's second fastest record in a marathon. In 1927, he won the nobel peace... Must I say anymore?
He is and will always be, the most interesting man in the world. Of course, you wouldn't believe me, would you? You couldn't possibly believe that I would have this sort of person in my recent family line, nor would you believe that it was so direct that he was my great grandfather.
I never did get to meet him, I do wish I had heard more stories...
Martin Adams began to type. He wasn't sure what to say; a fact that the repeated DELETES and EDITS made clear. Love letters were so much simpler in the pre-computer days. You'd write what you felt, scrunch about 3/4 of the pages up and throw them next to, if not in, the bin. Then you would belabour whether to post the thing. Sometimes you would, then regret it. Sometimes you wouldn't, then regret it. Now all he had to do was click SEND. Or not. Not click SEND that is.
Martin wished he'd managed to set up that clever thing...
He stood outside the castle, looking in. That little fence was all that separated him from the world of imagination. For the castle was filled with magic, with kings and queens. If only he could get inside, and experience that magic for himself.
When he got older, he'd realize that there was no such thing in the castle. The outside was a beautiful facade to entertain the children, but the inside was used as a storage room.
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
That's the sound of the horn that Stacey heard every night, at all hours. Seems her neighbor's boyfriend always wanted to pick her up at all hours of the night.
Now, Stacey didn't care what people did with thier time. She didn't care what her neighbor and her boyfriend did whenever they went out. She didn't even care what time they did any of this. The problem was her neighbor's boyfriend couldn't seem to lay off the horn.
Tonight, Stacey got home with an attitude. Her inbox at work never seemed to see the...
The key couldn't break.
Forged by the hand of fate
In the fires of adversity
Her love would mold
The white-hot metal
Into the shape it was meant to take
Then
Cooled by her touch
Quenched with desire
It would unlock
Anything
They were listening. Ears pressed against the glass, as if it were opaque, like the doors they used to listen through when Kat and Patrick used to fight.
There was nobody in the room behind the window, just the green house and the plants which grew too slowly to notice, but somehow enough to garner praise once they had become large and showy. Lillian seemed to be listening with concentration and Indy, he couldn't help but feel like he had missed the point.
"What is it we're listening for, again?"
"Shh."
"But I'm-"
"Shh. I said shh. You're listening them...