salshep

Ant,You're not going to believe this. Unzip the folder and check out image 14, number 227. Yes, that's a jugger you're looking at, only ten times the regulation embryo mass. And yes, that is an illegal frontal lobe.Look at those EEG printouts. That says sentient-level brain activity, or I am a monkey's nutsack. And get this - according the dates, he's two and a half years old? Still in prenatal phase. Oh yeah, and zoom in on that dark spot on the left. #227 also seems to have grown himself an eyeball.Our whole agenda here just took one giant leap into workable human rights territory. So let Jim know the plan's changed. Getting this jugger ...

Kallie felt nothing. Her insides were a black hole, a vacuum that sucked up every scrap of feeling and then spat it all out again. But to where? Somewhere she wasn't. She wondered at times where it all went, the love, the hate, the anger, fear. All Kallie knew for sure was that she felt empty most of the time, and this was a terrible way to be.Being alone drove her mad. It was then that her inner void echoed most loudly, so she did what she could to fill her life, her time: hobbies, obsessions, people. But when time was her own, when there was nothing and nobody to preoccupy her, she felt her own vacancy acutely. It was a pain that wasn't ...

Welcome to Rehab for Roleplayers, a series of articles aimed at helping roleplayers more successfully make the transition into writing fiction. Introduction: How to Spot a Drow Illusionist I can identify a habitual roleplayer from fifty paces. Those who've been spooked by my asking whether they're a roleplayer within ten seconds of reading their fiction will know what I'm talking about."But how did you know ?" they gasp. When I'm done chuckling, I explain that I know they are a roleplayer, because they write like a roleplayer.There's usually a pause, then, while the writer decides to what degree they're going to feel offended by this stat...

Don Emilio calls on us each week. My sisters watch him like hungry cats: Juanita, so thin she pokes holes in the sheets, sour-lipped Pilar, and poor Ines with her crooked back. But it is to mehis black eyes most often wander. Mama serves him coffee, and tightly rolled flautas. Our guest picks at the food, boasts of his villa in Guanajuato; immaculate hands dip and hover like jewelled birds.I have begun to suspect that Don Emilio is not looking for a wife..