The Baby is born. It’s a boy, just like Michael had said it would be. Eve is sleeping, and we are safe. I hold this Baby in my arms, and I don’t know if I should be happy about this, or if I should wish that it had never been born.
The deer came out of nowhere. Before either of them could react, it was already over. For a second, Mike remembered the eyes of the creature, how bright and circular they were. Like moons, he’d thought, and then the car had impacted, sending the animal one way and the car the other. Then all had been noise, movement and finally, darkness.
The courtyards of Katsuro’s castle bustled with dozens of soldiers and servants who hurried along to fulfill whatever order the Daimyo had thrown their way. Some men carried individual weapons, while others lugged entire crates or barrels in their arms through the fortress grounds.
As darkness fell across Tarama, Katsuro Ogawa sat in the uppermost hall of his castle, perched upon the largest and most elegant of pillows in the keep. It was the lone seat on an elevated platform, which he often referred to as his “throne”. Just as it was days earlier at his party, the room was well-lit and crowded by many of the Daimyo’s personal soldiers and advisors.
Jack Trump awoke from the nightmare drenched in sweat. It was a familiar part of his life now. The memories of the trenches would seem like reality up until the point where his own body would be cut down by a swathe of bullets and he would launch, bolt upright, in his bed. His shaking hands would run over his skin and find sweat instead of blood. It would not yet be dawn but he would rise, wash and dress himself, the nightmare still lodged, like small shards of glass, inside his every movement. Even as he walked into the London streets a scream or a cry for help would invade his ears, as clear and as real as the hawkers selling their papers on the side streets and the cobbles.
It was a humid summer night when a feint glow of light was seen by all peoples on the isle of Tarama, no matter how far they stood from it. The light emanated from the pinnacle of a magnificent castle, which was as grand as any Shogun’s in Japan. The people of the island had seen that same glow in the darkness many times before, and knew that it always came from a raucous party being held inside the ornate fortress, and always hosted by the man who called the citadel his home; Lord Katsuro Ogawa, the Daimyo of Miyako.
I'm lying on my back on a bed of undulating seaweed, twenty thousand leagues beneath the sea. I'm Mr. Spock flying through the universe, sealed in a capsule, my destination unknown. I'm a vegetating chunk of humanness, a rotting homo-sapient tuber buried in the slimy earth, millions of worms invading me, crawling into every orifice, devouring my living corpse from the inside out. I'm the centenarian Dave Bowman, lying in that enigmatic and mysteriously uber-sterile green and white room in 2001 - A Space Odyssey, growing older, and older, and older, by the second... whole, but not whole, not wholly alive. What is it to be alive? Perhaps I'm dead and at the same time alive, but mostly… I'm so alone here.
Matt Devon logged on to his site as he ordered his coffee. The waitress glanced back at him after he ordered but hadn’t come back, for which he was grateful for. It wasn’t so bad now and he hoped by the end of the year no-one would recognise him at all.
Driving west up Market Street, the first place they stopped was at police headquarters. Parked in the parking lot, Hurts told Amanda to remain in the car, telling her that he would be back in a few minutes. Ten minutes later, he returned, carrying two walkie-talkies, the type that have extended microphones that can be attached to the lapel of a coat or shirt. He set them down on the seat between Amanda and him.
She was and is The Obliterating, beyond oneness, and beyond names. She is the It-ness of it all, the mother of all things. She is before any name, any shape, thing, and time. She is sometimes called the encompassing and enveloping or by an acronym, GIA, goddess-in-all.
She knew that once something is, and has a name, its very existences give rise to its correlative and then its dialectic. And that gives rise, eventually, to the myriad things and universes. That would be the cause of troubles.
On an October evening of 2015, 70-year-old Manuel Joseph died of heart attack. In the strict sense it cannot be defined as death. Heart stopped, but brain was still functioning. There was activity in the higher centers of the brain, principally the neocortex.
I needed a gift for the Earth Winter Solstice Holiday for my wife Susan. She had accompanied me here with the other 49 childless couples to work as “pioneers”. We were establishing The Springboard To Space for future planetary exploitation and travel.
They drove five blocks east down Market Street. They drove to the Wainwright Building which was on the corner of Market Street and Seventh Street. The Wainwright Building was a twentieth-story skyscraper of brown granite and glass. The top three floors of the building housed the employees of International Investment, Inc.
Jack Trump drank his coffee at the dockside café and looked out to London, New Year’s Eve, 1919. The mist was so thick everything appeared in segments; a snatch of a ferry boat departing, the cloth cap of a worker. A group of men stood gathered in the shadows and the only visible part of them was the bottle being lofted high into the air and tilted from one neck to the next. Rats scuttled by, too quick to be seen, only detected by the sound of their claws against the cobbles.
Like most women, Shilpa had a weakness for sales. She loved buying things she didn’t need. And if they cost less, all the better. Why, just yesterday she had had a discount haircut. A friend’s friend was apprenticing at a swank saloon and had offered to cut her hair for half the price. Shilpa needed no second invitation. She had gone in for a complete makeover. Trading her hitherto long tresses for a chic boyish cut.
It was four days until Christmas Eve, and the soft, continuous knocking at the bottom of the door finally woke Hurts up. As he lay terribly hung-over on the old, long, black leather couch, with his aching head only a foot away from the door, he first thought that it might be leprechauns coming after him again. He had had some trouble with leprechauns two years ago, in 2009, for trying to steal their gold. Then he realized that he hadn’t tried to steal any of their gold again, so he dismissed it.