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Literature
Deliverance
The mist roiled like squid ink. Shale clattered down the slope.
“It's moved,” whispered Sir Livermore. “Uphill, and downwind. I think it knows where we are.”
Cyrinna swallowed a whimper, while Rian looked blankly at his master, his empty hands shaking. He'd boasted all his life that he was destined to become a knight, and now he would end as a charred skeleton beside that of the girl he was oathbound to rescue. They'd find his sword a mile back, where he'd dropped it in fright, and know the true extent of his failure.
Livermore shifted his weight, gauging the loose ground. He was glad he'd opted to go without full plate armour. Between the extra weight and the noise, he'd have been easy prey for those grasping foot-long talons. If he was going to get more than halfway uphill, he'd need to step lightly, and fleet as the wind.
“Please no,” croaked Rian, crawling back against the small bluff they were hidden behind. He could see his master plotting, and
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Literature
The Singing in the Stars
Parabola squadron floated out on the starboard flank of the fleet, barely visible. The azure glow of their engines had long cooled. They'd been out there for hours, on standby. No orders had been issued since.
“We should have heard something by now,” said Thaela over squad comms.
“Not necessarily,” answered Nerys, trying to sound more authoritative than she felt. “If this is really first contact, standard protocol goes out the window. We're all playing by ear.”
“Playing by ear usually requires that you hear something.”
Nerys couldn't really argue with that. Whatever the reason for the silence, and there could be any number of legitimate ones, it was still incredibly frustrating. Staying focused was getting difficult. Over her port side wing she saw Rozi nodding off in her cockpit. Nerys almost knocked on the transparishield to wake her before realising how stupid that was. She flicked comms back open instead.
“Rozi!” she snapp
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Literature
Behind the Changing Room Curtain
Not that Sigurd would ever know it, but it happened at the mall. There were no seats outside the changing rooms, so he waited on a bench in the shoe section, and found himself drifting to sleep. He woke to his wife's hand on his shoulder, and the sound of his infant son crying with such raw anguish that Sigurd was afraid he was in pain. No matter what he tried, he couldn't console the child, and handing him back just made things worse – the baby seemed almost terrified by the sight of his wife's face.
They returned home, and the crying never stopped. They went to bed, and the crying continued. Days passed, and not once did the baby settle down to sleep. Sigurd watched, a pit in his stomach, as his son pushed desperately away from his wife's breast. The baby seemed almost inhuman – the wide-eyed fear on its face, the determination with which it struggled, gave an impression closer to that of a tortured animal.
He sat in the doctor's office, brow furrowed, his hands clenched
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Literature
Dark Wings, Fake Tidings
The dilapidated royal pigeon loft on the Queen's Sandringham estate was a sad affair, its timbers rotting even as the birds themselves went to seed.
“Let's face it, I've gone to seed,” said Archibald XXIV, stuffing his face with birdseed. Pigeons could store a maximum of two puns in their brain at once, but when the first one was so good, why bother learning another?
“Bastards,” said Ptolemy IX, vaguely.
Erasmus XVII scratched at his perch irritably. “They'd bloody well be speaking German if not for us!”
“What, the Saxe-Coburgs? I think they speak German already.”
“No!” Erasmus would have spat if he was biologically capable of it. “All them, out there! We saved their arses during World War One. And Two - Bloody ingrates. I'll have them know my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-
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Literature
Moleus Moleificarum
“From the depths of hell they rise,” roared Brother Marlburrow. “Eyeless, ever hungering! Their hides, black as char! They claw their way up through the rock and dirt! Beneath our very feet, the legions swell!  
“They're just moles,” pointed out Brother Simmons.
“Fools!” yelled Brother Marlburrow, brandishing his shovel wildly. His small frame was barely keeping up with the rabid, frothing energy that animated it. “'Beware, for the devil shall visit upon you, guised in cloak of beast and fowl; whosoever recogniseth not his evil shall be damned for their lack of vigilance, and there will be much wailing, and gnashing of teeth'! Lo, the devil is visiting his evil upon us! Lo, the devil, in the guise of a mole! Behold!”
He held up his bucket, full of moles tumbling adorably over each other.
“Behold as they revel in filth! Creatures of the underworld! Demon, I name thee! Spawn of Lucifer!”
The monks gradually dispersed,
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Literature
Back with a Vengeance
Everyone knew it: in this economy, the occult was the way to go. Every high-rise in Inglemouth owed its existence to an eldritch abomination. R & D might as well have stood for Ritual and Demonology. Fornax was leading the way in the occult revolution, literally and figuratively at the cutting edge when it came to human sacrifice. They were dealing with devils most other organisations didn't even know existed. Of course, you couldn't contact an omelette from another dimension without risking the gruesome death of several eggs.
Melusine Deacon had the Occult Operations Projection Stats report in hand, and the numbers for Q2 were going to have to be revised downwards. A bloodbath was always accounted for in the risk assessment, but it wasn't something that just happened by accident these days, especially during what was scheduled to be a standard infernal contract negotiation.
Arcane Investigators (The word 'forensic' implied the investigation would submit its findings to an open for
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Literature
Gotta Go Fast
Panic the Pangolin instinctively curled into a ball at the sight of the giant head of his arch-foe, Dr Moustachio, looming above his treehouse in the form of a lime-green hologram. Its booming laugh startled all of Panic's animal friends to attention: Trunks, the elephant with two trunks; Elbows the Aardvark, who had spiky elbows and could glide for some reason; and Rose, who was also a pangolin, but pink and wearing a dress so you knew she was a girl.
Dr Moustachio's hologram reared back and grinned, his prodigious facial hair clipping through the trees and scaring away some birds.
“So good to see you again, pangoloser – for the pango-last time, that is!”
Panic watched with one eye open from behind his tail.
“You may have defeated me three times before,” said the hologram, “but there'll be no running from me this time. There's only one way you can save the world now...”
A shadow fell over the Opal Cliff Zone as the world held its breath
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Literature
Singing from the Depths
Archibald Ichorwell had dedicated his life to the accumulation of knowledge; a noble goal he had begun to pursue through ignoble means. He held in his hands the Kakoasteíon, an ancient tome of unknown provenance, dogged by fearful tales and superstitions. Not a single scholar of the modern age had dared pry it open for fear it would return the favour in kind.
Archibald Ichorwell dared. By candlelight he translated:
Look up, and observe for yourself. Infinity hangs above our heads. We are but plankton in the oceanic void – imagine the leviathan that sails in the depths. There are some things that man was not meant to know. Some truths that our minds have not been shaped to understand. My mentor once told me that to seek to learn the inconceivable is alike to pouring the ocean into a cup. I now know this to be untrue. More correctly, it is like fitting a tiger inside a fly.
I say this in warning, in illustration of what awaits you. To read what I am about to w
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Literature
Dealing with the Devil
The seaplane skimmed the surface of the Acheron and slowed with a flourish, bobbing on its own wake. I punted my raft closer as Satan stepped out onto the pontoon in a pastel suit and sandals, one hand casually on the strut, the other adjusting his sunglasses.
I levered open my topmost crate and tossed him a package underhand. He caught it, but waited for me to pull right alongside before stepping onto the raft and retrieving a different package at random. I didn't object – the merchandise is all high quality, and it's good business to build trust, y'know? Make him feel in control.
Satan made a practised slit in the wrapping with his little talon, scooped up some white powder (He sells it as Brutus. I just call it the product.), and rubbed it on his gums. I waited in silence as he screwed up his nose a couple times and took in the view. He didn't seem in a hurry.
“Alright,” he said eventually, rolling up his jacket sleeves. “It's good. Load up the crates
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Literature
Winning the cattle, Losing the war
The King of Bovos regarded the unscaleable walls of Cerassus (recorded to have been built by the Gods of the sun and sea as part of their community service), and looked with dissatisfaction as his ragged siege forces. He'd been looking forward to being present to watch as the last remnants of opposition were crushed by his might, but events weren't playing out as he'd hoped. He hadn't expected to have to be so hands-on, but if you wanted something conquered right ...
“The green sea stretches half the world before it laps the shores of a Kingdom half the worth of mine,” he boasted, pacing before the leader of Cerassus. “Your city remains the only place I have yet to plant my flag.”
The leader of Cerassus waited for him to get to the point.
“You know as well as I do that you can't outlast this siege indefinitely. But sieges are expensive, and you and the people of Cerassus have shown valour in the face of insurmountable odds. I'm not a cruel man. A strong al
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Literature
The Hand of Hearts
Far away, across the thrice nine seas, sprawling from snow to sand, there was an empire. At its centre a palace reached to heaven, its atria lush with fountains and gardens, its halls flooding over with jewels and treasures, its harems an embarrassment of intoxicating delights, and above it all, on a throne the gods themselves would covet, sat the Emperor, a man bereft of love.
“All my lands and riches would I give,” he said, “for a warm hand to deliver me. For want of true love, I shall waste away to nothing.”
His alchemist locked herself away for eighty nights, and in that time forged a candle unlike any other. She whispered to the wax in heartfelt angelspeak, sealing her words in it as it cooled. She twisted her hair into a wick, knowing allure to be the fastest way to kindle a flame. She sacrificed a hand to make a candelabrum, knowing that even the hottest furnace required strength and skill to forge the strongest bonds. She wished for nothing more, and not
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Literature
Disco Inferno
Ever since his death, Richard Nixon's crystallised heart had remained in the possession of the CIA – until tonight. The full strength of the Demonic Neutralization Coalition smashed into the CIA convoy: hulking armoured veetolls blocked the neon skyway ahead, while military and civilian cabs alike crashed in from all angles.
Bootsy flicked her electric blue hair out of her eyes, gritted her teeth, and joined the fray, slamming her Charger up alongside a sleek black sedan. Before they could even trade paint, the sinister mirrored windows burst outwards in a hail of bullets, but the car was already empty. Going toe to toe with the suits was suicide, and the objective was elsewhere – she landed with a roll on the roof of the transport at the centre of the convoy, and cut her way through. Rain and bullets pelted the hull around her as she hurled herself into the belly of the beast.
Bootsy was outfitted with what had, until recently, been state-of-the-art military biointegrated
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Ten Little Astronauts by joe-wright Ten Little Astronauts :iconjoe-wright:joe-wright 2 1
Literature
Oversoul
Amanita set down her lantern in the grass, followed by the birdcage. Though forgotten by maps and men, the birds knew this forest well, and avoided it when at all possible – they would detour by a mile or more rather than fly directly overhead. The little sparrow in the cage was overcome with fear at being brought here, but even that paled next to the abject terror it felt at Amanita's presence in this place, of all places. Only by consulting the bird, walking in the direction it desperately tried to flee from, had Amanita been able to locate this clearing: a hole in the canopy through which a long dead constellation stared, guileless, milky-eyed, yet still potent, in a way. Those burnt-out stars could not be seen in human skies, but here, somehow, they were not only visible but connected to the land, reflected perfectly in the arrangement of rocks and growing things.
The trees shivered in the guttering light of the lantern candle as Amanita hung carvings and catchers from their
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Hydra by joe-wright Hydra :iconjoe-wright:joe-wright 19 11
Literature
Love Letter
You bask in the candlelight as the ink dries on your skin. You've been penned by a suitor of Princess Annette, and the heart behind the quill is effulgent with hope – motivated by both genuine compassion and self-concern in more or less equal measure. Not a pure heart, nor an evil one; merely human.
You're folded with care and sealed with wax, and the following morning you're handed to a man, Father Tomas. Since the Queen's arrest for high treason, unfamilar faces have been most unwelcome at the palace; luckily, Father Tomas is almost a fixture of the place. He tells the suitor he saw her highness yesterday, withdrawn and pale with sorrow for her mother – he's more than happy, he says, to deliver you, and bring her something to be joyful about.
Tomas, however, is unlikely to run into Princess Annette again today, her self-imposed isolation rendering her inaccessible to the simple priest, that is unless she deigns to visit the chapel. You are passed instead to Baron Talus, a
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Activity


The mist roiled like squid ink. Shale clattered down the slope.

“It's moved,” whispered Sir Livermore. “Uphill, and downwind. I think it knows where we are.”

Cyrinna swallowed a whimper, while Rian looked blankly at his master, his empty hands shaking. He'd boasted all his life that he was destined to become a knight, and now he would end as a charred skeleton beside that of the girl he was oathbound to rescue. They'd find his sword a mile back, where he'd dropped it in fright, and know the true extent of his failure.

Livermore shifted his weight, gauging the loose ground. He was glad he'd opted to go without full plate armour. Between the extra weight and the noise, he'd have been easy prey for those grasping foot-long talons. If he was going to get more than halfway uphill, he'd need to step lightly, and fleet as the wind.

“Please no,” croaked Rian, crawling back against the small bluff they were hidden behind. He could see his master plotting, and the very idea of meeting the beast head-on set his guts to freezing. “If we stay still, it might -”

Livermore took the measure of his squire with tired eyes.

“The wyrm is a far better hunter than you or I. If I can track it, you can be sure it's tracking us. Our mission is to ensure the girl's safety, first and foremost. I can think of but one way to deliver on that promise.”

He handed his sword to Cyrinna, who met his eyes and took it.

“When I have its attention, take Rian, and run, as fast as you can. I believe in you.”

Cyrinna nodded, her tears like embers.

“Oh,” said Livermore, drawing his dagger, “and if you ever go up against a dragon, I have it on good authority there's a weak point behind the jaw.”

With that, he charged into the mist.

They waited in silence as his footsteps faded.

Cyrinna's gaze was fixed on the shield Livermore had left behind. Its crest was a cormorant looking skyward on a tawny field. She burned it into her memory.

The silence continued for several minutes, until it was broken.

Distantly she heard a grunt of effort, and then the gargling shriek of the beast. There was a flash of red, and then another, and finally a third, which cast a very specific silhouette through the fog.

At that, Cyrinna bolted, the tatters of her sacrificial dress flaring behind her, dragging Rian with one hand and brandishing Deliverance in the other.

Of course, back then, the sword was just a sword. It would earn its name in the years to come.

Deliverance
Day twelve (?) of FFM.

T.V. CHALLENGE: KNOCKING AT DEATH'S DOOR

YOUR TROPEDying Moment of Awesome. The character dies, but their death is spectacular and memorable. 

THE CATCH: The trope above must be implied . A trope that is implied is never explicitly shown in the text, but rather implied indirectly from a cookie crumb trail of clues and subtext. Read a more in depth explanation here.

The TWIST: Your piece must also contain a wannabe character, someone who aspires to be something (or someone) they aren't.
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Parabola squadron floated out on the starboard flank of the fleet, barely visible. The azure glow of their engines had long cooled. They'd been out there for hours, on standby. No orders had been issued since.


“We should have heard something by now,” said Thaela over squad comms.


“Not necessarily,” answered Nerys, trying to sound more authoritative than she felt. “If this is really first contact, standard protocol goes out the window. We're all playing by ear.”


“Playing by ear usually requires that you hear something.”


Nerys couldn't really argue with that. Whatever the reason for the silence, and there could be any number of legitimate ones, it was still incredibly frustrating. Staying focused was getting difficult. Over her port side wing she saw Rozi nodding off in her cockpit. Nerys almost knocked on the transparishield to wake her before realising how stupid that was. She flicked comms back open instead.


“Rozi!” she snapped, and saw her wingman jolt to attention, clocking herself in the visor as she attempted to rub her eyes.


“Sorry commander,” said Rozi. “I started counting ships and I was out like a light before I knew it.”


Nerys ought to have been angrier, but she understood. They were all exhausted, and there was nothing to look at bar the countless starships still amassing aside them. The cloud of soft plasma emissions condensed into a long strip at the centre, like looking at the Milky Way from Earth – both outside it and part of it. The tiny midge lights of Harpy ships whined lazily around continental-class Cetus dreadnoughts. Counting them all was clearly impossible, especially with new squadrons and flotillas arriving all the time.


“Don't let it happen again.” she said. “Activate stims if you have to.”


“Roger.”


A Scylla interdictor dropped out of warp sixty kilometers away, dwarfing the accompanying corvettes. Then another. Josethene whistled.


“Look at the markings,” she said. “That's from Trappist colony, no doubt in my mind. This must be fucking huge.”


“This is the largest military gathering in history by a long shot,” said Nerys. “This was huge even before they got here. I think they just tipped the scales over into 'terrifying'.”


She shouldn't have said that. Leaders were cool, calculating, and always in command of themselves and their team. She hadn't meant to let on how vulnerable she felt.


Siren fighters were the most versatile fighters in the Solar fleet – hardy, maneuverable, dangerous – but they were next to useless without data collection and a shit-ton of planning before a mission. Nerys didn't know what they were facing, other than that her superiors appeared to be gearing up for genocide, one way or the other. She stared at the commscreen as if she could will it into providing some solid intelligence. Even conjecture. Anything. Anything.


“Commander?”


Nerys almost jumped out of her seat, but it was just Thaela again. “I read you, Parabola Six, what is it?”


“I've been attempting to monitor fleet comms and it's all … bad. Bad news. I think something weird has happened to Qsync.”


Tapping fleet comms was prohibitively difficult and very illegal, and a trick like that would have meant diverting a sizeable chunk of her engine power, but Nerys was glad of Thaela's initiative. Qsync was the constantly autoscrambling quantum pairing algorhythm that powered Instacomm, the tech that allowed secure and instantaneous data cloning between vessels. It wasn't necessary for a local channel like squad comms, but it was absolutely vital in connecting capital ships.


“Have you checked the slowband back ups?”


“Yeah, they're all lit up, everyone's panicking, but that's not the bit that's freaking me out. When you listen to instacomm without the Qsync key, what does it normally sound like?”


“Hot garbage,” said Nerys.


“Right, it's just noise, because the switches aren't mated. Now listen to this ...”


The audio that followed was like whalesong as performed by the innards of a pocketwatch. It sounded like a robot screaming in agony. No, it sounded like a robot screaming in mocking imitation of someone in agony. Nerys shivered.


“That's the Celsura,” said Thaela. “I've tapped into the Lolaea and the Sylphair too, same story. Someone's hijacked Instacomm, and they've completely bypassed Qsync. Instacomm is based on Qsync. This message isn't using quantum sympathy, they're just broadcasting this shit instantly across space, and that's completely fucking impossible.


We're getting out of here,” said Nerys.


I'd really appreciate that,” said Thaela, her voice wavering a little. The effort of admitting she'd discovered something absurd happening to the fundamental laws of the universe seemed to have taken a toll on her.


Everyone back to the-” Nerys started, and as she swung her blunt-nosed ship around, orange light bloomed silently through the transparishield. The Celsura was crumbling, a sphere of fire expanding from its belly. Hulls upon hulls of ablative plating became nothing more than a cloud of glitter.


The broadcast didn't stop,” said Thaela quietly. “It's getting louder.”


Back to the Serenade,” ordered Nerys. “Full throttle.”


Sirens had no warp reactors, they were much too small. There was about to be a mass exodus, and if Parabola squad couldn't reach a carrier before that happened, they would be stranded in the literal middle of nowhere.


They streaked toward the Serenade. Its engines were already warming up.


Nerys saw the Sylphair burst into light, like the sun peeking between the clouds. Two suns. Three suns. It was easy to forget the sun was a nuclear explosion in space, but upon witnessing a nuclear explosion in space, it was hard not to see it as a sun.


Suns were being born everywhere.


She could hear the singing through Thaela's mic, clicking and crooning, exulting, growing louder and louder until it turned to feedback.


Gunning the engine, Nerys swung her Siren into the Serenade hangar and threw it down against the floor, relying on the friction combined with her thrusters to slow her before she made a fiery explosion of her own. Skidding around in an arc, she saw her squadron enter hot on her heels, landing with various degrees of finesse. All but one.


The stars turned to streaks through the mouth of the hangar, and the deafening feedback on the comms went silent.


Thaela was left behind.


Nerys screwed her eyes up, squeezed the yoke, and prayed with all her heart to any God that would hear her that her friend would survive. To her surprise, they answered.


The march of the alien transmission moaned softly in the back of her head.

The Singing in the Stars
FFM day something. I'm quite behind right now. A sort of but not actually a companion piece to 'Singing from the Depths' earlier this month.
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Not that Sigurd would ever know it, but it happened at the mall. There were no seats outside the changing rooms, so he waited on a bench in the shoe section, and found himself drifting to sleep. He woke to his wife's hand on his shoulder, and the sound of his infant son crying with such raw anguish that Sigurd was afraid he was in pain. No matter what he tried, he couldn't console the child, and handing him back just made things worse – the baby seemed almost terrified by the sight of his wife's face.

They returned home, and the crying never stopped. They went to bed, and the crying continued. Days passed, and not once did the baby settle down to sleep. Sigurd watched, a pit in his stomach, as his son pushed desperately away from his wife's breast. The baby seemed almost inhuman – the wide-eyed fear on its face, the determination with which it struggled, gave an impression closer to that of a tortured animal.

He sat in the doctor's office, brow furrowed, his hands clenched white-knuckled in his hair, and he caught himself wondering if this was even his child – sweet Olly, who'd been so quiet, to whom giggling had come so much easier than tears. Exhausted, said the doctor. Malnourished, said the doctor. Sigurd had never in his life felt as guilty as he did in that room. He squeezed his wife's hand, and it didn't squeeze back.

He hadn't seen her smile since the crying began.

Olly had.

Only Olly saw her face smiling wide at him when nobody else was there, and the straining seams at the corners of her mouth.

Only Olly had seen the changing room walls reach out.

Only Olly had seen what had become of his mother's skinless body.

He cried as they forced the unfamiliar breastmilk down his throat.

Then, gradually, he stopped.

Behind the Changing Room Curtain
I suspect this is the furthest I've ever got into FFM before writing something creepy. Day 10!

Bullet; Green FIRST! Your story must include a fairy tale character somewhere in your story. They may be out of place, they may be blending in, or they may be from anywhere, but they must be recognizable! Here is a list of fairy tales if you need inspiration.

 -This story is based on 'The Witch in the Stone Boat'

Bullet; Green SECOND! Your story must have an element of anthropomorphism, or the act of lending a human quality to a non-human object or being.

 -The impostor could be interpreted as a sentient changing room.

Bullet; Green THIRD! Get those dice and random number generators out again, and roll a d6 to pick a setting:
        1. A mountain
        2. A train
        3. A castle
        4. A coffee shop
        5. A mall
        6. A desert
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24 deviations
The dilapidated royal pigeon loft on the Queen's Sandringham estate was a sad affair, its timbers rotting even as the birds themselves went to seed.

“Let's face it, I've gone to seed,” said Archibald XXIV, stuffing his face with birdseed. Pigeons could store a maximum of two puns in their brain at once, but when the first one was so good, why bother learning another?

“Bastards,” said Ptolemy IX, vaguely.

Erasmus XVII scratched at his perch irritably. “They'd bloody well be speaking German if not for us!”

“What, the Saxe-Coburgs? I think they speak German already.”

“No!” Erasmus would have spat if he was biologically capable of it. “All them, out there! We saved their arses during World War One. And Two - Bloody ingrates. I'll have them know my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather was eaten by peasants during operation Columba.”

“They only appreciate us when there's a war on,” echoed Archibald from the bottom of the seed bowl.

Ptolemy and Erasmus stared at each other as realisation dawned.

The next morning, various world leaders received messenger pigeons bearing a short missive, ostensibly from the 'Queen of Engund', inviting them to fuck themselves. The vast majority of these were immediately dismissed as forgeries due to their lack of a royal seal, general resemblance to chicken-scratchings and their poor (although very impressive in context) grasp of English.

One, however, was not.

“What have you done?” screeched the US secretary of defense, tearing out what little hair he had left. “It's clearly fake, they spelled your fucking name wrong!”

The president tore his squinty shrew eyes away from the big screen where swarms of blinky red dots were arcing across the globe, and jabbed an angry finger at the message on the desk.

“Bullshit,” he roared, jowls red with apoplexy. “It's there in black and white, you asshole! T-U-R-N-P!"

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joe-wright

Artist | Varied
United Kingdom
Joe is basically Charlie Brown only instead of a dog he has social anxiety issues.
He spends most of his time thinking about etymology and looking like a startled owl.
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:iconobsydiandreamer:
ObsydianDreamer Featured By Owner Aug 1, 2017  Student Writer
Hello, I just wanted to say thank you for the watch. I really appreciate it :)
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:iconjoe-wright:
joe-wright Featured By Owner Aug 1, 2017   General Artist
No problem! :)
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lealsfeels Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2016
Happy Birthday! :party: 
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:iconjoe-wright:
joe-wright Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2016   General Artist
Thank you! =D
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PaladinRebel8 Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2016   Digital Artist
HAPPY BIRTHDAY! 
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:iconjoe-wright:
joe-wright Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2016   General Artist
Thank you! =D
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PaladinRebel8 Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2016   Digital Artist
No Problem! 
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Uskius Featured By Owner Jul 24, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy Birthday! :)
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:iconjoe-wright:
joe-wright Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2016   General Artist
Thank you! =D
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