"Skipper! Where are you, dammit?"

Op.8. Op.8.

"Wretched dog! You've only got so much time!"

Locate Rory. Locate. Locating. Locating.

"Where are you?" Another voice chimes in. "I want my paper. It's early in the morning. They told us you were an obedient creature."

Rory found, chasing butterflies on the south lawn. Come closer. Closer.

The little girl shouts, "Skipp-er! Skipp-er!"

Skipper barks, and Rory calls back. Safety is across the bridge, across the broken-windowed fairy house and shattered pond, but the voices are coming and Skipper has no idea how to stop them.

"I want my newspaper! Come over...

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reminded of yesterday
time and syllables
on the bus
greening the escapades
sifting the aftermath
reliving just before
loving the waters
time on stop
bridging the gap
minding the openness
all says go
the road to

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Maggie knew it was only a matter of time before she was caught. It was inevitable, as certain as the rising of the sun each morning over India's beautiful river.

She wasn't cut out for this sort of thing. She KNEW that. But when she saw it there, dark and rich and beautiful she knew she just had to have it, come what may. So now she sat in her seat, shivering, sweat beading on her forehead as the plane taxied for a landing. The bag shifted inside her blouse, it's contents conforming to the shape of her body as...

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Gene loved the smell of leather. He loved the smell of Heather wearing leather. He loved Heather in leather and the smell and the idea of the smell and the smell of the smell always left him crazed and wanting. He couldn't help himself. He didn't know how.

Heather hated Gene. She hated the idea of Gene and the smell of Gene and the smell of the smell of the leather Gene always wore. She had hated him forever. She always would. She could never forgive him for that one thing, years ago. She couldn't even remember anymore. She knew...

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He was on edge today, I could tell. The whole drive over to the crime scene he was quiet. He is never quiet unless is trying to solve a case in five minutes, his ex-wife is being a pain in his ass or some thing more sinister was on his mind.

We crossed the holographic police line. It recognized our badge numbers and IDs instantly. These things save so much more time than that old, shitty tape we used years ago.

He knew who to talk to, and walked right up to the officer in charge.

"We got this boys,"...

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The dream had been wonderful, yet it would never be real. He lay there in bed trying desperately to fall back into the illusion of beauty he had been so rudely awoken from. He just couldn't get back to sleep.

Sunlight drifted through his open window and explored his room. He watched as dust motes floated around on the breeze, dancing in and out of the rays that had invaded his deep sleep.

A quick glance at the old wooden clock above the door told him he had no time to sit alone and depressed in his bed and long...

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Okay, look. I had this idea that this was going to be a nice relaxing trip.

It was.

And we were going to come out here --

Yes.

And enjoy ourselves --

Yes.

And not have to deal with stress. Do you understand?

Yes, of course.

And now, what do you see?

What do you mean?

What do you see here?

I don't know... Trees, blue sky --

Stress!

Sorry?

Stress. It's stress. Every direction I look is stress.

Okay, look, you need to just take a breath. Remember what they said at the clinic. Deep breaths.

Stop it. I...

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she kept bird feathers in an old mason jar beside her bed. every night she would pick one, and blow sweet, freshly toothpasted air through the meat of it. sometimes dust would fly away with the wind, other times a few clingy strands of the feather would lazily float through the air. every morning, she would pick one, and slowly stroke her face with it, making soft rotations until she felt alive again. she says it stopped the dreams from coming real. one day, i worked up the nerve to ask her, "how do you pick the feathers you do?"...

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The audience stared open mouthed at me. I was petrified at when had just come out of my mouth. Then Amy Smythe began to cry. I don`t blame her, I would have cried, too, if my co-star had called me a stuck-up cow on stage. I could feel the Drama Teacher coming forwards to kick me off stage and tell everyone that there had been a mistake, that the show couldn`t go on now that it`s star had obviously had a psychotic episode onstage. Jeez, I was in for it now. My principal was going to call me in tomorrow...

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The woman at the window was dead. I knew because it was my sister. She appeared whenever we left the house. We no longer looked around up at the top floor to see the dark shape behind the thin lace curtain. We had seen her too many times before, her wretched, contorted face imprinted on our minds.

Martha died in a house fire seven years ago. Accident after she left a burning candle on her bedside cabinet overnight. It tipped over as her blankets were thrown back during a nightmare. Dad couldn't reach her in time as the room had...

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