Fiction & Poetry

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Brush the teeth harder than usual, having gotten no more than three or so hours sleep the night before.

I remember praying, I remember praying and pleading and offering up every part of myself in exchange for feeling whole again.

Bright red is often a warning colour.

This I can take care of:
Small homunculus on the roof, a pack animal
Pulled conveyance, and entry through the exhaust chute.

Life is too short not to own multiple bazookas.

The window of the inn looks out on the narrow street. It’s opaque with smudged filth.

There was a wailing sound coming from the next room.

My blood had soaked into the pages. It looked really bad. The poetry, not my blood.

Man, this republic is fucked

I am rich with the stuff,
Won from an enemy’s savage gardens.