It’s my turn to go in now.
Not so far from here, there’s a town that’s horseshoed by swamp and marshland, weighed down by dark undertows, strangled by deep roots from the mangrove trees that thrive on the blood and flesh of lost souls and shades.
Weasel stood at the bar. His nose pointed to a mean tip like the end of a switchblade, and his eyes had a natural narrowness about them like he had a perpetual cigarette jammed in his mouth and the smoke kept smarting at his eyes.
“Cinderella,” Tess Darcy spat, “Is possibly the stupidest story in the world.”
It’s getting dark. I’ve probably been sitting here now for a couple of hours and I don’t think that I can move because the idea of getting up and getting out means that I would have to figure out what to do next and I just don’t think I can do that.
- Oh my god... Harry? Help me, somebody DO something, somebody HELP me PLEASE, HAROLD, NO!
Monty sat on his bar stool and twiddled dejectedly with the toothpick he’d plucked from the dispenser earlier.
The man paused at the top of the stairs leading down through the grassy slopes to the promenade. He gazed out at the water, sparkling and dancing in the early afternoon sunlight.
It was a collection of beautiful people, luscious people, dynamic people, mysterious people, thin people, poised people.
No. 4, Everywhere st, August 1.
"Breakfast!" Tiff stood at the kitchen sink, wearing a demure floral print sun-dress that came in at the waist and dropped to just below the knee. Wearing light pink slip on sandals that were both comfortable and complimented her outfit.
Okay guys, we have a situation here. I think it's a fairly major situation, but I can't actually be sure because I never really paid attention when they were explaining how all this shit works. And why should I have? It's not like I want to be here or anything.
Once upon a time; although admittedly not an overly distant time ago - in a land that is either far, far away or quite close dependent on where you are situated on the globe - there was a cafe. It was located in a strip amongst several other eateries and snazzy little boutiques, all of whose owners prospered fatly and happily. However, it wasn't an overly prosperous cafe.
Reg and his wife Missy were lost. Very lost. Hopelessly lost. And Reg, for one, was pretty unhappy about it.
The doors thudded open again, and some new bloodsoaked and deflated excuse for a human being shot screaming on a stretcher into the hall, surrounded by what looked like overgrown kids in jumpsuits playing doctor.
I was out in the desert again, looking for flying saucers and gold dust, leastways that's what I told old Tom when I crossed the mangled piece of barbed wire that serves as a boundary line between his place and everywhere else.
It's a jungle out there.
Just inside the doorway of Jerry's flat, if you take one step in and then turn and look to your right, there's a cupboard of some kind.
There's a lot of building, a lot of hustle and bustle and arrangements and strange people with tape measures and hard-hats and somewhat undecorous mustaches, going on about the place and I for one don't like it at all.
Mr Smith peeped out through a crack in his lace curtains at the entrance to his driveway. He sucked in his breath through his teeth and exhaled worriedly. He pulled the curtains closed again. He straightened them so they would look undisturbed from the outside, where a car was quietly nosing into his driveway.
I like to sit in the garden, just here on this stone bench. It’s cold, the stone. Only in the heat of midday, if the sun is shining very hard, will the stone begin to warm up. But I don’t mind if there’s a bit of a chill.