WitchcrackI met the witchWitchcrack by SgtPossum
Behind the porno shop on 118th
You know, the XXX Liquidators
Where you always see middle-aged
Grotesque looking men
Who couldn't afford to be johns
Going in to sit in a booth and jerk off.
She was sitting there with what I thought
What I thought
Was a crack pipe,
Twisting a screw in the glass back and forth
With a Phillips-head screwdriver
The cross screwdriver
The one that my girlfriend in tenth grade thought
Was called a T driver.
I asked her what she was doing
And she glanced at me with that look
The one that says “no,
You can't return underwear
Yes, I am playing cards,
For fuck's sakes,”
The one that tells you to stop making small talk
And say something somebody gives a damn
“Come here, young man, and take hold
Of this pipe, keep it steady.”
“All right.” I said, wondering why
A crack pipe would need a screw
Why a screw is needed
When there's nothing to hold together
In a cast tube of glass.
She tightened it go
Live-FireWe knocked him out of the sky with the first shot. I couldn't believe it; our missile went straight up and arced along the edge of a cumulonimbus, and from the ground it was impossible to tell if it was anywhere near the target. There was a flash of green light in the sky and the CO cried out "gotcha!"Live-Fire by SgtPossum
I rode in the turret on the lead Humvee, sweating bullets and barely able to exercise trigger discipline when we got a visual on the target's crash site. The storm front was passing over now, and a torrential rain came down on the farmer's field where our convoy pulled off the road and gathered round a crater. It was a deluge, truly fitting what we had done, and most of the platoon dismounted from their vehicles and descended the crater. I stayed on my gun, providing cover that I knew wouldn't amount to shit if our target was still breathing.
They brought in a stretcher and a moment later carried out the body. It smoked and smelled vaguely of...well, all I can say is it smelled green.
Night TerrorI've got a problem, I know. And hey, I'm really sorry you had to come to my neighborhood, my home, with your obnoxious yappy dog and obnoxious yappy kids and obnoxious yuppie wife. No, it isn't your fault that I was brought into your life. But now that you're here, well, you know, I've got this problem. This, uh, itch that must be scratched.Night Terror by SgtPossum
I'm very old. You people, when you get old, you get grumpier, usually a whole lot eviler too. You think the world owes you something, you think morality is just a fairy tale the big man used to tell you to keep you in line. Imagine if you could grow as old as I. If you could watch eons pass as I have. Do you believe you'd take any solace in acts of heroism and charity? You're an idiot. You'd think of human life in the terms I do.
So, in a sense, it's you who has the problem. You can't understand me. You can't conceive of the ancient years that have blurred past me. Might as well try to hold a steady conversation with somebody plucked out of Stone A
4242: Rough LandingA tranquil scene in a desert canyon landscape was broken by the thunderous roar of an interstellar shuttle crashing through the atmosphere at terminal velocity, its nose white-hot and its fuselage leaking a long tail of smoke and water vapor. A herd of strange creatures with five-fold symmetry watched its descent toward the crest of a rocky ridge, their eyes and hides a shade of reddish orange very close to the color of the sand. They drank from the oasis at the center of the canyon, and though they were intelligent enough for curiosity, they did not have the patience for the drama unfolding miles away.4242: Rough Landing by SgtPossum
The shuttle's pilot had no patience or concern whatsoever for the animals far below him, though he too was more than intelligent enough to consider things with wonder. His name was Oswald Ferdinand-Rogbert, and his only concern at that moment was trying to survive the last few seconds of his long ride across the galaxy. He fought the controls for stability, gripped its handles and playe
The Next StageDis Carson and Zriz dropped their guns and raised their hands—on in Zriz’s case, claws—into the air. Zriz spat at the feet of the Eubolan holding them at gunpoint. Dis shared the sentiment. Out of habit, he berated himself. He should have seen the signs of ambush before boarding the derelict and called in the authorities. As if the life of a search and rescue unit wasn’t dangerous enough, he’d had to go charging into the dead ship looking for survivors. Trying to be a hero.
Instead, it looked like he was going to be just another victim. A five-year veteran should have known better.
“Look, just take the rations and go,” Dis said. “Shit ain’t even expensive.”
“Do not tell me you are afraid of death, Carson,” said Zriz with that clicking noise he had for a laugh.
“Hell no,” he said. “But dying at the hands of a filthy pirate over a measly box of food rations isn’t what I want carved as an epita
sewing the seeds of change.Silhouetted against the artificial sun, a man spotted me from across the plain and waved unceremoniously before turning away; he was the first human being I’d seen in six months. I did what any person who’d been alone that long would have done. I threw down my hose (the wheat would survive a few minutes without my care) and ran after him.
He walked slowly underneath the watchful eye of the solar lamp, the only one of the three in the station that remained operational after the end, and I kept running until I could touch the back of his shoulder with my calloused hand. Managing corn stocks and digging up potatoes had worked my hands into rough mitts that scratched on anything like sandpaper on silk.
“Who are you?” I asked, but he did not turn around.
He was looking at something in the distance, where my pseudo-sun barely touched. That part of the plain had wilted away, and had become the spot where I fermented plants and waste into mulch. I still had to
she whispers sweet nothings, i scream profanities.I found Beattie within the confines of a ruined church, cowering underneath the front row of pews with her hands over the back of her neck. She was convinced that the whole place would come down on top of her, and she always had to be prepared to protect her spine. I couldn’t blame her for that, only because you couldn’t get far in a ravaged world if your legs and arms didn’t work. She’d been dressed in her Sunday best for six months, though one of her white shoes was missing a heel.
“You should probably go somewhere else,” I advised her, taking a seat in the pulpit to light a cigarette. I set my guns down first, knowing that a girl like Beattie wouldn’t try anything dumb with me. If she did, I knew that I could take her head-to-head. “The insane people always scope out churches, thinking that God will save them.”
“God will save us,” she whispered, voice as quiet as a mouse in a fitting location.
Winter and FrostWinter sat outside, staring in wonder at the dwindling snowflakes dancing from the sky around her. She loved winter. To her, it felt magical. Sure, summer was gorgeous and fall was wonderful with all the colors, but nothing could compare to the sparkling frozen beauty of winter. And here she sat, in the midst of that beauty.
She was in the middle of a field, way past dark. Heavy snow had fallen only a few hours before, now only a few snowflakes fell from the dark sky, and the smooth blanket of white was undisturbed by even the animals.
Winter didn't want to leave, but the numb cold state of her body forced her to stand up and trudge through the powdery snow back into the small town where she lived.
The collection of cottages and other small buildings looked like a shadowy mass in the low moonlight, individual houses only distinguishable by the few that had warm yellow lights glowing in their windows. The lights disappeared one by one as she got closer, the late hour driving people into
A drunk Albertan, I'm a writer. I write stuff, and shit, and other things. Feedback is always appreciated, positive or negative.|
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