RoTTeNBC

Strings of beads, fly through the air, like moonlight to a silver mare "There they worship, there they sing, there they run and dance and play!" "The fools, they know no peace, no quiet or calm!" "How could they worship him so, when his name they do not know?" "How could they pray, on their knees, hold their heads high as that?" A cloaked figure, trailing black shadows, floated forth, propelled by ferocious winds. Layers of cloth flap and flock as the doors creak and open. With a great shove, the doors moan awake and shed light illuminates gathering dust, revealing yawning chasms and shuttering walls. Blinded men, beholden to his lord and

Darin Hopskin was a man who only touched, and was touched, by three things. His daughter, Areena Hopskin, his sword, Lily, and the ground. So one might understand his reaction to being touched, king or no, by Duruk Warsater. Darin did not recoil, however, because for all his finesse and agility, he could not hope to match one of the kingsguard, and there were three of them. Each wore the traditional colors of his unique position: dark red plate touched with gold-dyed leather where the armor gave way at joints. Light red wyverns slept on their heads, carved of Toldorian steel, and their bony tails rolled down the knights' spines past their ass

Fat, fat feet wobbled and waved, Forwards steam blew off, Some baking buns. So Fat Lommy trotted on, Towards death's sun. Poor, poor Tommy shivered and cried, Shaking with glee when an exit appeared, He thought he had won. And Brave Tommy trotted on, Towards death's sun. Lazy, lazy Lommy ached and moaned, But he kept ahead, Because of a cushioned bed. Aye, Lazy Lommy trotted on, Towards death's sun. Remember, dear reader, Small, small voices echo and lie, They tell you your ten times to die, But don't believe them, Because your only once, To death's sun.

The belt curled like a snake, wriggling and wreathing as if in pain, before snapping straight again on my back. Goddamn my father knew how to use that thing, even my nightmares are filled with its despicable movement. I see it now, a thing of black, tarnished leather with silver lining and a fine, cold metal buckle. He was, indeed, a cruel man. Nonetheless, he was a great man, and history, myself along with it, has been scarred by his passing. Aye, I am his bastard son, and the only living heir to his throne. It is no surprise he died, and although his death was staged as an accident, no sane man across the seven corners of my newfound kingdo

April 20, 2012 Las Vegas 9:08 P.M. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - "Is that a soda can?" "Yes." "We're in a bar, why don't you enjoy it?" His eyes wide the man turns his head, first left, then right. He leans in, almost cautiously, as if telling a secret. And, with those staring pupils and outstretched eyes: "I don't drink," accentuated by a tense, but quick, drought of the soda can. This exacts a blink, and now two, from the amber-headed female. She smiles, playing along, then whispers,

"There," I whisper, "atop the trash off the side of the sandwalk." "Looks interesting," you say. "Yes, yes it does indeed." You, as a reader, may ask, with a mild curiosity I might add, what, exactly, is atop that crusty trash can? "Oh, that..?" I would inquire, rather bewilderly. "It is The Storyteller," I would tell you, a sateless lust in my eyes. He moves with all the subtle movements of a panther with a victim on hand, he screams with all the fury of a rage-filled warrior, and does it all appropriately, cunningly. Oh, yes, he knows how to speak, he knows how to thrill because he's been doing it for as long as I've been alive, and p

With a rude huff the man was off. A steel skirt rolled down to the tips of his knees and a iron chest-piece covering the fruit of his milk-makers. Many scars adorned this adventurer's face, a deep white-colored one, no doubt born of magic, stood out, jagged across his leathery skin. A sharpened blade sheathed at his waist he set out, seeking a thrill, gold, and a story to tell to his young. Off he went, strong as any. No horse need he, a miser of his wealth. So he walked along the roads that coursed this rugged land. A world waited around him, subtle in its secrets and ancient in its age. Snowy peaks stood out, scraping the skies. Men rebell

"It is good you stay your blade, but it must be done." "No, it can't be done, not by me." Two long, slim fingers, curled themselves under the curve of Duruk's chin. Kindly they pressed themselves against his chin, pushing his head up. "Get up, Duruk. I will not speak to a man who can't hold his posture." "Then do not speak; you will but persuade me anyways. You have been right so many times, master, so many. But please, this is where you make your mistake. You've said it yourself, you're not perfect. There's got to be another way." A frown creased Duruk's counterpart's features. "Listen to yourself, Duruk. You resemble a child crying a

In my chamber room I saw there a power, In my slumber loomed this tower. Before this groomed thing I cowered. Without my wits, my honeyed tongue and poisoned pawns, How could I raise a heated tong, And make a twit of this playing con? Dressed in bleach and stains of red, It caressed and leeched my pains of dread. Too late did I discern, That it was determined. Was it so that I knew, Maybe I wouldn't of hew, And chopped strew its head. Oh, my mother lay dead.