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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.


his eyes were eggs of unstable crystal, vibrating with a frequency whose name was rain and the sound of trains, suddenly sprouting a humming forest of hair-fine glass spines.


she had been filling capsules with high-grade death, one by one, painstakingly.


she smelled like violence and rainy nights.


he examined his arm with a stupid sort of wonder. a buck and a half Pensy jackknife was growing out of it like a strange tumor.


he smiled a little. it was a sick smile, but better than none.

themed rerun #19

the steel, asbestos-jacketed pressing cylinders had been as red as barn paint, and the rising steam from the machine had carried the sickening stench of hot blood.

sleep wouldn’t come. when it did, it brought dreams that were like neatly edited segments of memory.

the man opened his mouth to speak. a small trout swam out, trailing impossible bubbles.

themed rerun #18

a tangible wave of longing hit him, lust and loneliness riding in on the wavelength of amphetamine.

a simulated airburst drowning the arcade in white sound as a lurid hologram fireball mushroomed overhead.

with a barely audible click, ten double-edged, four-centimeter scalpel blades slid from their housings beneath the burgundy nails.

he willed himself into passivity, became the passenger behind her eyes.

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