Highrises.
This was the life. High up in the skies, towering above the poor commuters who have to walk the streets. I stood on the balcony, the speeders whizzing past. The sun was rising, spraying its rays over the metal surface of the building.
I showered. The sonic waves power washed all the dirt off of my skin. Five minutes later, I was fully dressed and ready for work. I headed back to the balcony, and stepped off onto my speeder.
It only took a minute to get to work. I waved at the scanner at the front door. It...
Trivia. They say Native Americans, and other native people of the World, believed photographs stole their soul, the marrow of their being. It comes up a lot in clever White people films and books, when they want to show Savages and Locals as ignorant and superstitious.
Actually, it is probably more true of the early photographers themselves, breathing Mercury fumes, day in day out, in producing their metal plate dageurotypes. The toxin building up, destroying the marrow in their bones, until they quickly faded as much in Life and Strength as their pictures eventually did. Easy pickings they were.
I...
Modelling had never been her idea. The vacuous stares, the hours in front of the mirror. Was it her fault her proportions were perfect for summer dresses? It was a life she escaped the moment she fled her mother's house.
She didn't pick the color of her hair. It didn't come on a shelf, stinking up the bathroom with it's noxious fumes, attracting evil eyes from other women who thought they knew what she was like simply from the glow of her yellow hair and the swing of her hips?
The pitch of her voice wasn't her fault. How did...
the fog sat heavy
in the valley cauldron.
each intersecting limb
was the peace of a friday
morning, interrupted.
we were singing
all the songs we had heard
before as children, and we
thought of having coffee,
but we didn't.
what does it mean
to be caught under a tree
at the break of what would be
a taciturn day, but wasn't?
I don't like insects. Nor mammals. Or birds. Especially I don't like humans. Or inanimate obects. Everyone thinks I'm weird. And so I am.
As one of the few survivors from the Roswell crash, I am allowed to be different. My brain is no longer functioning and I've forgotten my mission on Earth.
I can eat, talk, eliminate although most of the time I have no idea what I am doing.
Doctor Rushton say's that he thinks I'm far more superior than any politician he's met. He's a little quirky as I suppose you know.
Tomorrow we're going on a...
£18000 was how much it was going to cost to get him out of jail. Such is the price for public indecency in front of the queen.
It wasn't even that it was so...indecent. It was more along the lines of public infantilism. We'd both been to London before, and we had done all the touristy things, all the things that young men with wild oats were desperately in need of doing, but this time, Adam took it too far.
Adam, he of the propensity for humping things, took one look at the Royal Guard, and in a moment of...
"This is it?" Leila said with a wrinkled nose, her hands were clasped behind her back as she slowly approached the animal.
Myron stared at the blue ribbon sitting in a bow on the back of her head, eclipsing her dark brown tresses like an enormous butterfly. His eyes traveled down to her feet and the way her calves flexed as she walked on her toes around the creature.
"I wasn't lying, was I?"
"Dunno," Leila replied, and she hopped on a crate, her lanky, boyish form backlit by golden rays. It shone through her hair, making it more like...
Trivia. I always liked useless information. Like all the actors to have played Dr. Who (even though die hards will know the character was The Doctor), the names of the 7 dwarfs in the Grimm's fairy tale, and how many deadly sins there were. So, when I was asked (by the man himself, if man is the right word) "What is my name?" I knew what it wasn't. It wasn't Frankenstein. That was the name of his creator, but so many thought it the name of his monstrous offspring. Frankenstein's Monster was possibly the closest he'd ever come to an...
I'm fine
No really.
Really really!
I'm not being aggressive.
NO, I'm NOT!
I am NOT shouting.
I'm perfectly Ok. O… K…
I'm Fiiiiiinnnnneeee.
Yes
Yes
No, it's not…
No
NO!
Look. I'm fine, Oh…Kay! It's all good. Absolutely great.
Best ever. Brilliant. Bendi (bloody) gedig!
No, I'm not swearing now. That's Welsh.
No not the middle.
Yes, I know 'bloody' is a swear word. Oh God!
I am really, Really, REALLY Ok.
Yes.
Yes , really.
Yes, he was. I know that now
…
Ok… maybe I'm not…
The best oak hand sawn carved by a master carpenter. Plush deep red velvet that is soft to the touch yet heavy, and sumptious, the heaviest brass polished to a mirror finish. Everything I bought was the best money could buy, my house photographed and featured in all the glossy magazines.
Rachmaninoff and Bach were always my favourite composers so it was fitting they were chosen, expert pianists played to give me the best send off. As I lay in my coffin in a gown made in Paris, my relatives knew I would be happy.