The wind whistled through the cracked windows and played with the flames of the candles at the altar. With wax infused with the bile of a gorgon, there was no danger of the lights going out until the appointed time. He stood there and surveyed the setting before him. A smile flickered across his haggard features just as brief as the candlelight. The plants were a nice touch, he thought.
High Archon Graham Fernandez, a distant descendent of Spanish immigrants to the New World, felt ready. He turned to look with a certain arrogant magnanimous visage upon the first arrivals. He stepped over to one of the pillars at the side of the altar and waited in its shadow. The congregants would find it hard to see him there, even with his dimly red eyes.
The last echo descended into the vacuum that the room now was. It was eerie and subtle. Reid Moran loved that time, that moment, when he was finally alone in his classroom and free of those who thought they were hear to learn. Looking out the window, he saw the last of his class run for the gate and home.
He packed up his pens and planning book, put them in his satchel and sat down at his desk. He caught a whiff of the hours-old coffee that was still sitting on his desk. Reid picked up the mug, took a sniff and, with a shrug, sipped a little of the cold liquid. It was always good, but it did nothing to stave of the hunger pains.
Reid caught a glimpse of one of the junior teachers waiting for her ride. He felt the pains a little more intensely. Downing the rest of the coffee, he walked out to chat with Faith Gilmore. She was wearing a pair of tight, black slacks with a floral print blouse. Her dark hair and bright blue eyes lit up when she turned and saw Reid approach. He had always been nice to her.
I have heard people liken continuing users of Twitter (now attempting to change its brand to the ridiculous “X”) likened to Nazi fascists. At the very least, they have been called supporters of fascism by those leaning to the left of the political spectrum. Pushing those political concerns aside and ignoring the possibility that Elon Musk is a reprehensible, elitist, greedy parasite, should writers use the old Bird Site?
It all seemed like a great idea when I was young. You know the story. Our whole futures were laid out in an endless stream of adventure and why wouldn't we? Back then, it was the dawn of a new era and we were the bleeding edge of human evolution. Or so we thought.
Graham Hadrian looked into the mirror early on Sunday morning, grimacing at the haggard, drawn face that peered back at him. Sickly, dysentery green stains blotched his skin and eyes like a leprous growth seeping its diseased tentacles through his body. Another Sunday and another service that he would have to push himself through. He wondered at the hypocrisy that used to weigh heavily on his heart. It no longer caused him a loss of sleep or pricks of the conscience. If the suckers wanted to believe this crap, then that was on them. He was merely pushing the lies that had long since ceased plaguing him with their malicious guilt and fear.
It was always serene. An air-conditioned room in the quiet distance meant Damien Zhao could focus on the task. He could guide the eyes of the world wherever he wanted. He was surprised he did not get drunker on that power, until he remembered Casey was the one who called the shots. Friggin' director.
The drone drifted closer to the street below. Waves of people surged along the street. The dark blue line sank backwards, a retreat from the much larger tsunami ramming them towards the vehicles that had brought them. Streamers of smoke streaked through the space between the drone and the people, now distinguishable from each other. Gas erupted from canisters like puffs of pollen. The large hoard of people hesitated under the onslaught of teargas.
Lost. That was how Kumiko felt. Something she had thought would last forever was ripped away from her like a scab off a wound. The old feelings came back in a deluge of loathing, a maelstrom of clashing emotions that surged within like a tsunami of terror.The old comments, the snide looks and the condescending pity would return. Others would see her as just that single loser-dog. The tears were there. Just below the surface. Even though she was alone, Kumiko would not allow them free flow. She refused to give the bastard even that unseen satisfaction.
The days had worn into weeks which had stretched and seethed into unending months. From the day the first Overlords had arrived, death reigned supreme on Othus Prime IX.
The Overlords brought with them their magic and their fury. Inhuman machines gifted human souls reaped their blood-soaked vengeance on a planet that had committed no sin against them.
Cassandra's cold, blue eyes stared across the room at her friends talking at the bar. They were shrouded in a cloud of blue tobacco smoke from the pipes they were all enjoying immensely. At a time when such vices were frowned upon, to say the least, smoking reviled substances of any sort was almost a capital offence socially. Cassandra loved it.
She languidly lifted herself from the booth where she had been chatting to one of her oldest colleagues and joined her clique. She found a plain, ceramic pipe proffered by Ivan Kalinsky. The dark haired and brooding Kalinsky had been a failing writer in the 1950's when Cassie had turned him. Two and a half centuries later, nothing had changed for the man.
The hit had been perfect. The Grand Vizier of Ethquafar, a middling little planet on the edge of Unionist space, had dropped like a sack of Parthmen excrement. The exploding head spraying bits of purple brain and orange blood all over the Vizier's pampered family was a bonus. The Media Ports had been flooded with graphic replays for hours. As far as Huxhert was concerned, this had been a complete publicity overrun for the Revolutionary Brigade of Oorth.
Huxhert herself had chosen the antique munitions that had done the job. A single 13mm round did not come cheap. But the hollow-point slug, long banned by any civilised world, had made its point (no pun intended). Now that she was being grilled by the single most useless individual in the entire RBO, her patience was wearing thin.
The wind whistled through the cracked windows and played with the flames of the candles at the altar. With wax infused with the bile of a gorgon, there was no danger of the lights going out until the appointed time. He stood there and surveyed the setting before him. A smile flickered across his haggard features just as brief as the candlelight. The plants were a nice touch, he thought.
Reid caught a glimpse of one of the junior teachers waiting for her ride. He felt the pains a little more intensely. Downing the rest of the coffee, he walked out to chat with Faith Gilmore. She was wearing a pair of tight, black slacks with a floral print blouse. Her dark hair and bright blue eyes lit up when she turned and saw Reid approach. He had always been nice to her.
I have heard people liken continuing users of Twitter (now attempting to change its brand to the ridiculous “X”) likened to Nazi fascists. At the very least, they have been called supporters of fascism by those leaning to the left of the political spectrum. Pushing those political concerns aside and ignoring the possibility that Elon Musk is a reprehensible, elitist, greedy parasite, should writers use the old Bird Site?
Graham Hadrian looked into the mirror early on Sunday morning, grimacing at the haggard, drawn face that peered back at him. Sickly, dysentery green stains blotched his skin and eyes like a leprous growth seeping its diseased tentacles through his body. Another Sunday and another service that he would have to push himself through. He wondered at the hypocrisy that used to weigh heavily on his heart. It no longer caused him a loss of sleep or pricks of the conscience. If the suckers wanted to believe this crap, then that was on them. He was merely pushing the lies that had long since ceased plaguing him with their malicious guilt and fear.
The drone drifted closer to the street below. Waves of people surged along the street. The dark blue line sank backwards, a retreat from the much larger tsunami ramming them towards the vehicles that had brought them. Streamers of smoke streaked through the space between the drone and the people, now distinguishable from each other. Gas erupted from canisters like puffs of pollen. The large hoard of people hesitated under the onslaught of teargas.
The old comments, the snide looks and the condescending pity would return. Others would see her as just that single loser-dog. The tears were there. Just below the surface. Even though she was alone, Kumiko would not allow them free flow. She refused to give the bastard even that unseen satisfaction.
The Overlords brought with them their magic and their fury. Inhuman machines gifted human souls reaped their blood-soaked vengeance on a planet that had committed no sin against them.