"Hey, guy, any cold sodas?" The kid exuded youthful disdain, hands thrust deep in dark pockets, eyes hard.
Adams observed the swagger. Shoplifter? he thought Stick up guy? "Sure," he said. "Big cooler in back of aisle three."
You could get there from two but the convex mirror had a better view of three.
Adams watched, drumming the cash box with the pistol kept inside.
Serving other customers, it was a while before he realised the kid'd been back there for near half an hour.
He headed down.
The fridge hummed, deep and buzzing like a two ton wasp.
On the floor in the fluorescent light specks of liquid glinted, a small dark scrap of fabric was caught in the door seal like a lolling tongue, and, in the shadows, a gun.
Adams bent, sciatica flaring. Damn kids, he thought.
Showing posts with label horror. Show all posts
Showing posts with label horror. Show all posts
Friday, 5 November 2010
Sunday, 31 October 2010
Living Colour
As the museum burned the police watched Hobbs and his statuary carefully.
As wax dripped and ran, twisting and warping into esoteric and erotic poses, steel and aluminium wire was laid bare.
"Using human beings as armatures?" Hobbs laughed. "God how beastly. Not to mention graceless and impractical."
Lighting a tallow candle he gazed lovingly around his room. "Painting has always been my love, the anatomy and mechanics of the strange my muse."
Blasted landscapes from which twisted smoking limbs curled strangely under multiple moons, outré and gibbous.
Corpse-like portraits, amoeboid, bloated and obscene, painted in livid intestinal shades cast baleful gazes.
Hobbs smiled broadly as the police dismissed his paintings with disgust.
Each blasphemous canvas rendered lavishly in thick, lustrous pigment; bone white, blood red, spleen mauve.
Pigments rendered from the living flesh of Hobbs's many, many victims.
As wax dripped and ran, twisting and warping into esoteric and erotic poses, steel and aluminium wire was laid bare.
"Using human beings as armatures?" Hobbs laughed. "God how beastly. Not to mention graceless and impractical."
Lighting a tallow candle he gazed lovingly around his room. "Painting has always been my love, the anatomy and mechanics of the strange my muse."
Blasted landscapes from which twisted smoking limbs curled strangely under multiple moons, outré and gibbous.
Corpse-like portraits, amoeboid, bloated and obscene, painted in livid intestinal shades cast baleful gazes.
Hobbs smiled broadly as the police dismissed his paintings with disgust.
Each blasphemous canvas rendered lavishly in thick, lustrous pigment; bone white, blood red, spleen mauve.
Pigments rendered from the living flesh of Hobbs's many, many victims.
Prisoner's Cinema
Probing in darkness with his tongue, Holbeck was pretty sure his gums were shrinking.
Pulled back into light, he watched with a grim, detached fascination as old scars ran wet, opening again like painful memories.
Barlow, the warden, rolled an orange around one broad, thick hand.
"This all can stop, " he said, "you know what we want."
He thrust his hand forward. Sharp citrus scent filled Holbeck's nostrils, an acidic life-giving tang.
Holbeck stared mutely at his body, daubed purple with weeping blotches.
His silence: rewarded with being thrust back in the hole.
A phosphor glow burst in the darkness, a shower of lights coalescing; approaching.
The filmy, translucent form of Sara shone before Holbeck.
Peace, my love, she whispered. Great dark wings enfolded him, sighing.
Say nothing. You will be rewarded.
Hope filled him, and she was gone.
Pulled back into light, he watched with a grim, detached fascination as old scars ran wet, opening again like painful memories.
Barlow, the warden, rolled an orange around one broad, thick hand.
"This all can stop, " he said, "you know what we want."
He thrust his hand forward. Sharp citrus scent filled Holbeck's nostrils, an acidic life-giving tang.
Holbeck stared mutely at his body, daubed purple with weeping blotches.
His silence: rewarded with being thrust back in the hole.
A phosphor glow burst in the darkness, a shower of lights coalescing; approaching.
The filmy, translucent form of Sara shone before Holbeck.
Peace, my love, she whispered. Great dark wings enfolded him, sighing.
Say nothing. You will be rewarded.
Hope filled him, and she was gone.
Thursday, 28 October 2010
Infected
Scott watched the city from what he laughingly called his Penthouse.
They were there as always, the shuffling infected, clogging the streets like a putrid cholesterol.
Safe behind his barricade Scott spooned beans into a battered pan.
Three hours till night fell, the crowds thinned out and he could make another supply run.
Later, crossing the plaza, Scott saw them.
One fed, gnawing at a girl's neck. Scott fired once, shearing away it's head, stepping forward he discharged again into the girl.
Hearing others approaching he ran, scattering his plunder like chaff.
A muffled pounding shocked Scott awake; they had found him.
He opened fire indiscriminately from his shielded embrasure into the screaming throng below.
Behind Scott a heavily armed rapid intervention team spilled through a splintering door, a cacophony of shouted commands.
Scott heard only moans as they approached.
Soap
"Who did you say you represented?"
"Interested parties." The man smiled, his tongue flickering. "Parties who, I may remind you, have significant resources at their disposal."
Harry wondered why the offer of money sounded so much like a threat.
The buyer leaned in, steepling his gloved fingers.
The object on the table between them was greenish stone striated with black.
Frankly, it creeped Harry out, being all tentacles and gold flecks that reflected strange internal lights, but his nose for value said it reeked cash.
"I've had academic interest," Harry said, "an archaeology professor from Massachusetts has expressed great – "
"Morgan? A dabbler." The buyer waved his hand contemptuously in arcane shapes and stormed out.
Harry stared after, absently scratching a scleroidal rash that had sprung up in the folds of his neck. Unnoticed, the statue began emitting a pallid light.
"Interested parties." The man smiled, his tongue flickering. "Parties who, I may remind you, have significant resources at their disposal."
Harry wondered why the offer of money sounded so much like a threat.
The buyer leaned in, steepling his gloved fingers.
The object on the table between them was greenish stone striated with black.
Frankly, it creeped Harry out, being all tentacles and gold flecks that reflected strange internal lights, but his nose for value said it reeked cash.
"I've had academic interest," Harry said, "an archaeology professor from Massachusetts has expressed great – "
"Morgan? A dabbler." The buyer waved his hand contemptuously in arcane shapes and stormed out.
Harry stared after, absently scratching a scleroidal rash that had sprung up in the folds of his neck. Unnoticed, the statue began emitting a pallid light.
Monday, 25 October 2010
Festival
The church was bedecked with garlands of late flowers.
Naïve fabric appliqués of vegetables and grain adorned the banners that lined the walls.
The children dutifully shuffled in, two by two. Filing into the nave they ambled forward, pressing aimlessly.
The adults barely noticed as they were shepherded to the back.
The children gathered.
At the door a little boy turned a key in the lock and shot the bolt. Smiling blandly he joined the others.
The grown-ups, unnerved, huddled back toward the altar, now slipping over crushed produce, tins knocking noisily down the steps and rolling across the transept floor.
In a strange incredulous silence they sank to their knees, holding out beseeching arms.
The children fell upon them. Snarling. Hungry.
The sun shone coldly through unseeing transparent saints, scattering hard bright rainbows of light.
The harvest had begun.
Naïve fabric appliqués of vegetables and grain adorned the banners that lined the walls.
The children dutifully shuffled in, two by two. Filing into the nave they ambled forward, pressing aimlessly.
The adults barely noticed as they were shepherded to the back.
The children gathered.
At the door a little boy turned a key in the lock and shot the bolt. Smiling blandly he joined the others.
The grown-ups, unnerved, huddled back toward the altar, now slipping over crushed produce, tins knocking noisily down the steps and rolling across the transept floor.
In a strange incredulous silence they sank to their knees, holding out beseeching arms.
The children fell upon them. Snarling. Hungry.
The sun shone coldly through unseeing transparent saints, scattering hard bright rainbows of light.
The harvest had begun.
Friday, 22 October 2010
Closet
Steve had followed all the instructions and still had pieces over.
Always the same with this flat pack furniture, he thought. Obtuse instructions, arcane pictograms, like some carpenter's strange invocation.
"The power of joinery bids you arise!"
He dropped his hands, laughing uneasily.
Steve'd always had this thing about wardrobes; it had taken some courage to buy the damn thing.
You should never have read that book, his mother had told him
Still, he thought, now I have somewhere to hang my clothes other than the floor.
Then, a thrum ran through the birch wood, rattling and shaking as from distant footsteps.
A note slipped sharply from between the doors.
"We have delights," Steve read.
A prank, he thought, it has to be.
He approached, gripping his screwdriver tightly, and threw open the door.
It wasn't Mr. Tumnus who greeted him.
Always the same with this flat pack furniture, he thought. Obtuse instructions, arcane pictograms, like some carpenter's strange invocation.
"The power of joinery bids you arise!"
He dropped his hands, laughing uneasily.
Steve'd always had this thing about wardrobes; it had taken some courage to buy the damn thing.
You should never have read that book, his mother had told him
Still, he thought, now I have somewhere to hang my clothes other than the floor.
Then, a thrum ran through the birch wood, rattling and shaking as from distant footsteps.
A note slipped sharply from between the doors.
"We have delights," Steve read.
A prank, he thought, it has to be.
He approached, gripping his screwdriver tightly, and threw open the door.
It wasn't Mr. Tumnus who greeted him.
Thursday, 21 October 2010
Cryptid
Bocharkov entered the dimly lit signal room, coffee in hand, wafting his way through a dense cloud of smoke.
Vasiliy Kropotkin lit another cigarette. His fifth since he came on shift.
"Dimitri, listen to this," said Kropotkin.
They'd been pulling double shifts since the escape; monitoring chatter, sigint intercepts, movements of Cellar operatives.
The FSB had always maintained a cordial relationship with the Cellar, but it paid to be careful.
Slipping on headphones Bocharkov listened, brow furrowed.
"They've taken delivery of creatures," said Kropotkin.
"And?" Bocharkov scowled, he didn't need Vasiliy to translate. "Do they know about escape?"
"Not yet," said Kropotkin, "but Simonov will talk to Laing. He'll have to."
"We don't know where Aleksi is going. Yet."
Kropotkin coughed out a laugh. "You know where he's going as well as I."
"Then I hope Podval has strong locks."
Vasiliy Kropotkin lit another cigarette. His fifth since he came on shift.
"Dimitri, listen to this," said Kropotkin.
They'd been pulling double shifts since the escape; monitoring chatter, sigint intercepts, movements of Cellar operatives.
The FSB had always maintained a cordial relationship with the Cellar, but it paid to be careful.
Slipping on headphones Bocharkov listened, brow furrowed.
"They've taken delivery of creatures," said Kropotkin.
"And?" Bocharkov scowled, he didn't need Vasiliy to translate. "Do they know about escape?"
"Not yet," said Kropotkin, "but Simonov will talk to Laing. He'll have to."
"We don't know where Aleksi is going. Yet."
Kropotkin coughed out a laugh. "You know where he's going as well as I."
"Then I hope Podval has strong locks."
Monday, 18 October 2010
What I did on my summer vacation
It was a good beach. First day I found lots of shells on the black sand. My dad said they were baloney shells.
We talked mom into camping up the King Range. It was hot and steep, but my dad carried me sometimes on his shoulders. I said he should carry mom too, she laughed.
When it got dark we set up camp in the trees. It was cooler. I saw a big dog, but my dad said there weren't any dogs up on the mountain.
Then a thing happened. I was asleep, the tent shook, like a hurricane grabbed it.
There was growling. My mom screaming. Then quiet.
The ambulance took my dad and me to the hospital. A police man made me write this. He says it's a statement.
He says they are still looking for my mom.
We talked mom into camping up the King Range. It was hot and steep, but my dad carried me sometimes on his shoulders. I said he should carry mom too, she laughed.
When it got dark we set up camp in the trees. It was cooler. I saw a big dog, but my dad said there weren't any dogs up on the mountain.
Then a thing happened. I was asleep, the tent shook, like a hurricane grabbed it.
There was growling. My mom screaming. Then quiet.
The ambulance took my dad and me to the hospital. A police man made me write this. He says it's a statement.
He says they are still looking for my mom.
Friday, 15 October 2010
Sharashka
The alarm was silent, a red light flashing insistently.
Demikhov knew what it meant. And where.
With great reluctance he pressed the button that would summon Director Simonov.
Even in the near darkness, the cell gleamed wetly.
"Is this his blood?" said Simonov.
"We don't know sir, we're doing a sweep now." The guard studiously avoided looking into the cell, "But, you know what he was."
Simonov understood. This wasn't the White Swan, with it's murderers, child-rapists and colourful tattooed Bratva, but Chernyi Vorot, the Black Gate, established by the NKVD to dispose of their insoluble problems.
The radio crackled. Guards had found footsteps starting almost thirty feet from the ramparts and leading directly to the outer perimeter fence.
They continued unbroken on the other side, the fence untouched. Unclimbed.
Aleksi Nahkimov was heading east, to the Urals.
Demikhov knew what it meant. And where.
With great reluctance he pressed the button that would summon Director Simonov.
Even in the near darkness, the cell gleamed wetly.
"Is this his blood?" said Simonov.
"We don't know sir, we're doing a sweep now." The guard studiously avoided looking into the cell, "But, you know what he was."
Simonov understood. This wasn't the White Swan, with it's murderers, child-rapists and colourful tattooed Bratva, but Chernyi Vorot, the Black Gate, established by the NKVD to dispose of their insoluble problems.
The radio crackled. Guards had found footsteps starting almost thirty feet from the ramparts and leading directly to the outer perimeter fence.
They continued unbroken on the other side, the fence untouched. Unclimbed.
Aleksi Nahkimov was heading east, to the Urals.
Saturday, 9 October 2010
Good Morning
Esther Gray enjoyed her retirement far less than her old team.
Flicking channels, watching stock tickers with growing annoyance, she silently cursed her decaf and her oncologist.
The only tough calls she made nowadays was how far she could be from a bathroom.
Two stuporous flies bumbled in with the chill morning air as she opened the door out to the deck. She snarled, swatting at them with her Journal.
She stared across the quiet forest. Below, the waters of the cove sparkled in the low autumn sun.
She almost stepped on the racoon. Face down, a viscid pool ringing it's matted corpse.
Esther toed it, Goddamned Ackerson's dog's off the leash again.
She reached for the phone, turning.
The coon's glistening entrails curled purple on her picture window, a single four letter word.
She dialled, furious, and uniquely, afraid.
Flicking channels, watching stock tickers with growing annoyance, she silently cursed her decaf and her oncologist.
The only tough calls she made nowadays was how far she could be from a bathroom.
Two stuporous flies bumbled in with the chill morning air as she opened the door out to the deck. She snarled, swatting at them with her Journal.
She stared across the quiet forest. Below, the waters of the cove sparkled in the low autumn sun.
She almost stepped on the racoon. Face down, a viscid pool ringing it's matted corpse.
Esther toed it, Goddamned Ackerson's dog's off the leash again.
She reached for the phone, turning.
The coon's glistening entrails curled purple on her picture window, a single four letter word.
She dialled, furious, and uniquely, afraid.
Tuesday, 5 October 2010
Plagiarism
Craig stood on the icy platform, drinking abysmal coffee, reflecting as he waited for the 8.32, that despite this third round of rework he doubted the client wanted a hit out on him yet.
As Craig boarded his usual carriage, he was there again.
A few days earlier Craig had noted the excellent footwear choice of the guy four seats down; the same pair of limited edition Converse he'd treated himself to last month.
Two days later Craig saw him again, sitting only two seats down now, wearing the same red t-shirt, and his hair style.
Today, the man sat opposite him; a reflection, except for blank, dead eyes.
Leaning forward, a whisper: He approaches.
Craig watched mutely as the man leered, picked up Craig's bag and alighted.
The train departed, an abandoned man staring from the carriage, waiting...
As Craig boarded his usual carriage, he was there again.
A few days earlier Craig had noted the excellent footwear choice of the guy four seats down; the same pair of limited edition Converse he'd treated himself to last month.
Two days later Craig saw him again, sitting only two seats down now, wearing the same red t-shirt, and his hair style.
Today, the man sat opposite him; a reflection, except for blank, dead eyes.
Leaning forward, a whisper: He approaches.
Craig watched mutely as the man leered, picked up Craig's bag and alighted.
The train departed, an abandoned man staring from the carriage, waiting...
Saturday, 2 October 2010
The Lost Coast
"This is smooth, satisfying WMPR out of Shelter Cove,
It's three minutes past one and we'll take another caller after Bert Kaempfert, Love after Midnight."
Bryant flicked the mic off and kicked back his chair.
In the far distance a thunderhead on its way to Fort Bragg crackled with lightning.
It'd been quiet tonight, a call about the blood drive in Garberville tomorrow, and Mrs. Gray out on the King's Peak Road complaining about things in the wood again; flying wolves this time.
(Last week, the wendigo walking.)
Looking out across the cove, black sand sparkling in the moonlight, Bryant figured he'd head to Mario's by the lighthouse for early breakfast.
As he watched, one by one the lights were going out, a wave of darkness rolling down the ridge toward him.
Bryant heard a keening howl, the sound of wings.
It's three minutes past one and we'll take another caller after Bert Kaempfert, Love after Midnight."
Bryant flicked the mic off and kicked back his chair.
In the far distance a thunderhead on its way to Fort Bragg crackled with lightning.
It'd been quiet tonight, a call about the blood drive in Garberville tomorrow, and Mrs. Gray out on the King's Peak Road complaining about things in the wood again; flying wolves this time.
(Last week, the wendigo walking.)
Looking out across the cove, black sand sparkling in the moonlight, Bryant figured he'd head to Mario's by the lighthouse for early breakfast.
As he watched, one by one the lights were going out, a wave of darkness rolling down the ridge toward him.
Bryant heard a keening howl, the sound of wings.
Friday, 1 October 2010
Mario's
Ernest was a short man, a little thinning on top, a little thick round the middle.
Once, he grew a moustache. You look like Super Mario, his brother had said. He gave the name to his restaurant.
Ernest picked his teeth thoughtfully as he eyed the carcass. Then, with studied ease, he pared flesh away from bone, dividing into fillets, ribs (thick and thin) setting aside the liver and the kidneys and the trimmings for grinding.
His brother's head appeared round the kitchen door.
"Eah, Ernest, guy out front says he's found hair in his meatball mostaccioli, wants to make a complaint."
"Send him back here."
Ernest made ready, moving the offcuts from the board. Feet and hands in the red bin for the dogs, head in the fridge for coppa di testa.
Worksurface prepared, Ernest stropped his cleaver, waiting.
Once, he grew a moustache. You look like Super Mario, his brother had said. He gave the name to his restaurant.
Ernest picked his teeth thoughtfully as he eyed the carcass. Then, with studied ease, he pared flesh away from bone, dividing into fillets, ribs (thick and thin) setting aside the liver and the kidneys and the trimmings for grinding.
His brother's head appeared round the kitchen door.
"Eah, Ernest, guy out front says he's found hair in his meatball mostaccioli, wants to make a complaint."
"Send him back here."
Ernest made ready, moving the offcuts from the board. Feet and hands in the red bin for the dogs, head in the fridge for coppa di testa.
Worksurface prepared, Ernest stropped his cleaver, waiting.
Thursday, 30 September 2010
Delivery
"It bit me."
"Vicious little bastards aren't they?" Gerrard laughed, as I bound the oozing nip on my thumb.
"What the hell are they?" I asked, peering into the strengthened plexiglass carry-case.
Inside scurried numerous..things..I'd have called them rat-like if they'd only had four legs. Mostly, they seemed to be made of teeth. They burrowed among the packing peanuts, sinuously writhing over each other. Every now and again greenish spines would ripple and twitch as they confronted one another.
"We've no idea," said Gerrard, "despite the teeth, they don't actually seem to eat anything."
He smiled. "Apart from you that is."
"Leach isn't going to like us storing these in the cellar."
"Aah, Leach is always complaining we never visit." Gerrard began to pack the case up.
I'd heard what Leach complained about.
Things grow, he said, in the dark.
"Vicious little bastards aren't they?" Gerrard laughed, as I bound the oozing nip on my thumb.
"What the hell are they?" I asked, peering into the strengthened plexiglass carry-case.
Inside scurried numerous..things..I'd have called them rat-like if they'd only had four legs. Mostly, they seemed to be made of teeth. They burrowed among the packing peanuts, sinuously writhing over each other. Every now and again greenish spines would ripple and twitch as they confronted one another.
"We've no idea," said Gerrard, "despite the teeth, they don't actually seem to eat anything."
He smiled. "Apart from you that is."
"Leach isn't going to like us storing these in the cellar."
"Aah, Leach is always complaining we never visit." Gerrard began to pack the case up.
I'd heard what Leach complained about.
Things grow, he said, in the dark.
Tuesday, 28 September 2010
Night watchmen
Greg eyed the door. He couldn't shake the idea that something was wrong with it.
"Most of the lights don't work," said Leach, waving vaguely. "Course light isn't all that great for some of the specimens."
Leach's footsteps echoed. His wavering flashlight barely pushing back the darkness; row upon row of metal shelves, stretching off to unseen limits.
Torchlight danced shadows through a flickering maze of jars, books, strangely angled statuary, things suspended in liquid; bulbous eyes peering sightlessly.
Slapping his flickering torch to life Greg hurried after.
"No one comes down here nowadays," Leach was saying. "They forget."
"But if no one remembers this place, what do they need us for?" said Greg, looking toward the water-streaked door.
"Us?" said Leach, turning. "We're here to stop things getting out."
Then Greg saw.
The locks were on the inside.
"Most of the lights don't work," said Leach, waving vaguely. "Course light isn't all that great for some of the specimens."
Leach's footsteps echoed. His wavering flashlight barely pushing back the darkness; row upon row of metal shelves, stretching off to unseen limits.
Torchlight danced shadows through a flickering maze of jars, books, strangely angled statuary, things suspended in liquid; bulbous eyes peering sightlessly.
Slapping his flickering torch to life Greg hurried after.
"No one comes down here nowadays," Leach was saying. "They forget."
"But if no one remembers this place, what do they need us for?" said Greg, looking toward the water-streaked door.
"Us?" said Leach, turning. "We're here to stop things getting out."
Then Greg saw.
The locks were on the inside.
Stupid is...
I could feel myself getting stupider as he talked.
His opening gesticulating gambit was about the blacks.
Inwardly rolling my eyes, desperate to extricate myself. The barman took an age to pour my pint.
As my bitter arrived my benighted companion began a monologue on "Those Muslins". God help me, I nodded, all but an invitation to join me at my table, which of course he did.
As I sipped and he droned I could barely hear myself think, nor remember why I chose to enter this dank side street dive.
Women, government, the police. I half expected him to start foaming at the mouth.
Time passed, I felt fuzzy, his arguments begun to make sense, using big words.
I fought he must a bin a right clever geezer tho.
He buyed me a pint and wents. Fancy a chat?
His opening gesticulating gambit was about the blacks.
Inwardly rolling my eyes, desperate to extricate myself. The barman took an age to pour my pint.
As my bitter arrived my benighted companion began a monologue on "Those Muslins". God help me, I nodded, all but an invitation to join me at my table, which of course he did.
As I sipped and he droned I could barely hear myself think, nor remember why I chose to enter this dank side street dive.
Women, government, the police. I half expected him to start foaming at the mouth.
Time passed, I felt fuzzy, his arguments begun to make sense, using big words.
I fought he must a bin a right clever geezer tho.
He buyed me a pint and wents. Fancy a chat?
Saturday, 25 September 2010
Lucky escape?
When the alarms sounded he thought of his wife.
It was stupid, at this time she'd either be in bed, or curled up with some awful movie, a glass of red and a box of love substitute.
Security meant a lot of nights.
He was moving before he'd processed the thought. Heading instincitvely for the exits.
The lifts, predicatably, were inoperable. A milling gaggle of white coats. PhDs not helping now.
He slipped between, to the emergency stairs. Only twelve flights to the surface.
He climbed, door banging. The scientists following wheezing as he hit third.
The sounds changed, gargling to faint slumping thuds, as he approached eight.
Home stretch now, lungs burning. Not from the agent, please. Pistol unholstered he fired three clustered rounds into the door glass.
The snake hiss of gas followed him into the blank night.
Monday, 20 September 2010
47°S 126°W
Dreamt of the squid again last night. Feeling weird. A monumental squall woke me. Had to strike the sail and batten down.
6.45 am Mar 22nd via SatWeb
@therealMcAndrews: Ha ha, I wish! More likely something I ate.
6.54 am Mar 22nd via SatWeb
Shipped a hell of a lot of water last night.
8.03 am Mar 22nd via SatWeb
@Carter: Looks like I'm spending the morning in the bilge.
8.16 am Mar 22nd via SatWeb
Just saw my first waterspout! Two in fact!! Dancing past about a kilometer off starboard. They made a sound like singing.
1.45 pm Mar 22nd via SatWeb
Ran aground sometime last night!?? Two maybe three a.m I think? GPS seems on the fritz.
4.27 am Mar 23rd via SatWeb
Now it's light, guessing this is a reef of some kind. Must've drifted way off course in the dark!
7.52 am Mar 23rd via SatWeb
Smells rank :) Can just make out a huge looking structure visible across the weeds and mud.
9.03 am Mar 23rd via SatWeb
I'm hearing that singing again. Off to investigate..
9.13 am Mar 23rd via SatWeb
Closer now, it seems almost like chanting...
9.21 am Mar 23rd via SatWeb
...
9.26 am Mar 23rd via SatWeb
Thursday, 9 September 2010
Estrus
Around the club neon fizzed and flickered fitfully through the murk, syncopating with tinny dance music, beating out their blind exhortation to drink.
Randal watched the dancer; her thong a wilting peacock’s tail feathered with bills. Her lithe body and thick hair, rounded in a chignon, glistened in the spotlights.
Absently massaging his inner thigh he raised a buttock, squeaking out a beery fart.
Later, he paid more attention as she ground against him.
"Make me hard baby"
"I'm going to make you so hard," she breathed, her hands running across sleek skin, a practiced flick freeing her breasts.
Randal's breath rasped unevenly, watching her reach further, unclasping the thick sinuous ropes of her hair.
They tumbled to her shoulders uncoiling, a writhing nest of snakes, bifurcated tongues tasting blindly for him.
Her cold eyes burned, "Hard as a rock".
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