I'm the only one in this whole damn crowd who doesn't want to be here. Skirt clinging to my legs in the heat, I make my way through the streets, drawn along with the happy surge of people heading to the Hill. This is the second time the Iron Shirt has been worn since the Church reinstated the old laws. The other time was five years ago, and then it was only Mad Joel. Read more...
George stood over them, waiting for silence. He had refereed many of these encounters, but he still felt the hairs on the back of his neck before every one. He raised his hands to hush the salivating crowd. They were like dogs waiting for meat. The throng surged forward, a wave of sweaty anticipation. Read more...
I entered and shut the door. The studio apartment was just like The City, just like the foyer, but its colourless walls were brightened in places by large paintings; one was a house hanging upside down from the sky, another was a landscape of hills which rose from the backs of a school of barracuda. Read more...
By the time the Toyota was empty, the sun had set. The air of the hills stank of rotten eggs, an odour he had gradually become used to during the drive. After his exposure to the relatively untainted air inside the shack, however, it caught anew in the back of his throat. He drank from the open bottle of scotch, wincing; the fire of the spirit wasn't sufficient to overpower the stench, but it helped. Read more...
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