The canvas set.
Every stroke vivid.
Every line drawn, nuanced.
Painting with deep, resonant colors.
The tones shift, the lighting rewrought.
Building in layers upon layers, each subject meticulously captured.
Standing back, we look again before changing direction.
Every subtlety intentional.
The canvas complete, the critics arise.
In painted prose—a novel.
Rhythmic and regular, the click and swish continue incessantly.Each thread woven in sequence, layering side by side.Slowly the colors emerge, interwoven amidst the threads designed to strengthen.The cut of the fabric is shaped and molded.Every stitch, meticulous; every fold, crucial. The narrative robed in cloth.
Detective Morris glared across the interrogation table. “You said you were where, Friday night?” He said, for the umpteenth time. The smug grin on the perp’s face… matched only by the eerie silence. That face, highlighted in red from the light in the hall, occasionally flickered with someone’s passing. Ugh. Hours. He didn’t recall right…
Never did we expect such power. We stood awaiting orders that never came. Night after night, day after day, our numbers grew. We were unaware of the ultimate goals, but our count increased as efforts to grow our numbers through seeds planted subtly and the fluttering immersion that flowed nightly through the city. We were…
The anticipation of the launch filled the room as everyone waited with bated breath. The tanks of the rocket were full, and the countdown had begun. This damned rickety control station, hastily constructed, rocked to and fro as everyone concerned focused on the impending launch. Somewhere, two solid objects of the control platform were thumping…
Death, meet Black Hole…
We had just left the bowling alley when a distraction by my friend allowed me to slip away from him. Before he could stop me, I was already down the alley and rounding the corner. A strong breeze at my back—a breath of tantalizing freedom. Twice I was able to evade… staying just beyond the…
