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Peaches Breath deeply. Aim. Steady. Follow the sight.Peaches2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The explosive crack of Celine's rifle shattered the air. Outside among the horde, Mrs. Venna, Celine's English teacher from high school, fell back with a hole in her forehead. Around her, the swarm didn't notice. It just continued to lumber around mindlessly.
"Try to fail me, huh, bitch?" She muttered, rising from the walnut stock of the gun. Standing before the window of her apartment living room window, Celine looked out at the scene below.
On the ground, bodies writhed together like a single entity. Men and women, children too. They crowded together, their flesh decaying in the summer heat. The streets were scattered with them as they moved about in disorganized packs. The strongest congregation of them was three stories below her window.
Zombies. That was the final agreement among government and public opinions. That was the name they were given over the television, the
Deciduous Crowns AdorningThis ephemeral body fades,Deciduous Crowns Adorning2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Brilliant as Sól-brushed empyrean,
Winged away on golden wheat winds
But lingering in farmers' field greens.
Deciduous crowns of laurels and thorns
Adorn the heads of the kings of kings
Who shed their cultivated kin to the dream
And await the cold that betrayal brings.
They bow their limbs before the thrones
Appointed and built upon their absence,
And accept the judgment thus bestowed
Conceding to death only in pretense.
And so find comfort in abdication
Even whilst some call to Azrael,
The name immortal, mighty, and dreadful;
For even death, with his vocation,
Can never hope to distract or curb
The salvation of creation.
One short sleep past,
We wake eternal.
an argument about g. harrisonwhat did you think would happen?an argument about g. harrison3 years ago in Scraps More Like This
we taught the computers to fall for god when things go wrong
and nothing but February in exile without a moon
and you trying to describe the experience of blacking out
the numbers on a bill from cities you're not ready to go back to
we could end ourselves here in a fit of coughing
uninstalled by molecule into an anagram of northern lights
that would preclude trying to describe the experience of space travel
if only they'd forgotten the photographs at home
and what if the beatles had met in a chat room?
what did you think would happen
if reading history was all about reverse engineering the problem
and not the short stories of music that still existed on briefs
from outside the country and remarked at narcotics anonymous that everything
is the lack of light
and all the dead you've left are following
and following and following.
Oh california, i swear to god
i will fucking leave you