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they should have sent a poet.

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sandstorms raged across the scoured floor of his skull, generating waves of high thin static that broke behind his eyes, spheres of purest crystal, expanding…

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the colored flourescence gleaming through the slits of polarized molecular film turned his cool, smooth face into something unearthly.

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now he was at the door, and the bolts rotted at his touch.

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"beautiful and cruel", she repeated dreamily, "beautiful and cruel."

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'i can see your soul at the edges of your eyes. it's corrosive. like acid.'

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there was the same deadly malignity in his white profile that there had been in his eyes. every step that carried him away from me seemed to bear him on some errand connected with my destruction.

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i felt electricity inside, the buzz of violence, sparks raining down inside my skull as if from a blown fuse.

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post #169.

I am not dead!

a century ago we came to your world and saved you from self-destruction. i do not believe that anyone would deny that fact—but what that self-destruction was, you never guessed.

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she looked at the dead woman sitting against the wall. there was no pity in the glance, only the sort of parting acknowledgement anyone may give to a piece of hard work that has now been finished.

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things had already gone wrong, and i was starting to realize that a deed is never like the dream of a deed.

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themed rerun #20

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their caterpillars run on as endless as the war, they are annihilation. a fleet of roaring, smoke-belching armor clad, invulnerable steel beasts squashing the dead and the wounded.

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one part of her is dispassionately watching the head bounce and spin in the dust, and the other part of her is screaming her lungs out.

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a tangled cloud of wreckage and flame that skids across the pavement toward him, growing to envelop him so that all he can see is tubulent flame, perfectly simulated and rendered.

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