FFM Day 8- The NarratorThe scene was a morbid one. Birds feasted on corpses: dead horses and soldiers alike. Blood-stained uniforms marked the allegiances of the fallen, but the dead had no such loyalties left. All were alike in death.
In the center of the carnage stood the lone victor, once shining armor now dirtied and rent. He propped himself up on his greatsword, still fighting for his life lest fatigue alone slay him after surviving every obstacle he had faced.
“It looks like the glorious hero has failed again,” the narrator said, dripping scathing sarcasm. “There is no hope, no possible escape-”
“Look here, you ponce,” the gleaming knight yelled back. “I’m doing my best.”
“Oh, great work,” the narrator said. “Do you have a business card? People will flock from all across the land to kiss your feet, to grovel before you, to polish your platinum posterior.”
“Look, you ass,” the knight said, straightening his
FFM day 6- The UnreclaimedThe bodies came down the assembly line with multicolored tags in their ears. An identical baby blue blanket covered each body from ankles to collar bone, obscuring their nudity. Naked, pink toes poked out from underneath the blankets.
Each body was an attempt to reach perfection, skewed representations of the consummate human. They were all sedated, no eye movement beneath lids that were crusted shut. They didn’t twitch; they barely breathed. The factory had the look of a psychopathically efficient morgue.
On the observation deck, engineers monitored the production line. Bodies were loaded onto belts near the loading docks, coming off trucks in their own encapsulated trolleys. Once pried out of the pods, they were dried off and inspected for obvious transportation damages. After that, they were tagged.
Dr. Cavoy looked out over the process. She was middle aged, severe, and overwhelming angular. Her chin looked more than capable of slicing steel, and her tight ponytail didn
FFM day 4: 4 promisesConversation with Julia Sarnet
I’m so drugged up, Jules
I can’t think straight
it’s okay honey
i’m right here with you
I love you!
Peter’s heart rate monitor beeped incessantly. The room was decorated with little pieces of the different families he’d had: bobbleheads from the precinct, pictures from mom and dad, action figures from Julia, and half a Hallmark store of cards.
babe, Alyn’s wife wants to visit
what should I say?
ask her why Alyn isn’t talking to me
I can tell her this is a bad time
I have to tell him I’m sorry
People swam in and out of focus. Some days Peter woke in the hospital. Other days he woke in a warehouse with smoke in his eyes, pain shooting through parts of him that were barely attached anymore.
He woke with his sister’s head on his chest, o
Outfit problemsGrape leaves made excellent outfits for fairies. Not so much for human sized fairies.
The prince stared at her.
“What, you’ve never seen a naked fairy before?” Carleia demanded, glaring.
“You won’t have eyes anymore unless you grab me some clothes,” she snapped.
“Okay,” the prince said, turned about-face, and walked into a wall.
Day 3- The Rifleman's WalkThe rifleman walked his feet bloody. His boots were hours behind him on the dusty road. His feet, worn raw by the unpaved highway, were a collection of bleeding lacerations and oozing blisters. He bent forward as though he were climbing up a steep incline. Just walking jarred his bones, until he felt he would break himself apart from the force of each step.
He must have looked smart once in his officer’s frock, with pressed trousers, and shined boots. Now he looked like a dead man who’d climbed out of his own grave, bloodied from a past that was only two steps behind.
The lemon yellow dress hugged her curves better in his memory. She wore a bonnet over her hair, but for him, for his memory of her, she undid the strings. She dropped the bonnet to the ground. Her eyes were brown, and for him they were wide and full of love, but he couldn’t remember if she’d really loved him that much.
As a hallucination, her stomach was full and round, and pregnancy suited her. Th
FFM Day 2- Fly like a FlitlickThe colors swirled into each other, dizzying in their clashing, prismatic coalescence, before emptying out into a series of descending staircases and tunnels. The commuters were beautiful people, stepping off the monorail at the glistening platforms and striding down the stairs with stately grace. Their actions were synchronized with the behaviors of the people in the levels above them, reaching up like the layers of an ill-fated cake towards the vaulted dome.
Cassius watched from the highest walkway, leaning over a chest high railing to peer down at the frothing masses below. The people on the level below him were a prosperous bunch, a merchant class, fed by pretenses and the promise of even better things.
Mechanical insects buzzed above the heads of the consumers and commuters, brass things that glinted in the sunlight and screeched like banshees if anyone touched them. They would run off the edge of walkways and soar down to the lower levels of the city, pouches dangling from their