Surfer On The Drift

From today:

     "Everyone living right now will still die.  You're wailing and complaining over a few lost hours that won't resonate in the scheme of things.  In the coin of the realm, those hours are of a penny significance.  To me, to the universe, to the beyond beyond even my comprehension of the beyond, the murder of this world at this moment in time means nothing.  Worse has happened.  Worse is happening.  Worse will happen."

Surfer On The Drift

From today:

I'd never surfed in more than two lanes of traffic, and never ever while also having to keep in mind a quantum buttload of pedestrians.  It was like Spock forgetting to factor in space debris or the possibility some other ship other than the Enterprise might be attempting to slingshot the sun that same exact moment.  

Surfer On The Drift

From today:

Right before impact, Dawn wondered what kind of chips would go ok with the sandwich.  Ruffles weren't bad, but she'd always been a Fritos kind of girl.  Fritos were applicable in any instance, a solid sodium injection riding slack, even to an end-of-the-world sandwich. 

Surfer On The Drift

From today:

     Her hair had receded until it was only a few random flickering strands on top of her skull.  Nubs, the beginnings of horns, were growing out of her head slowly like somewhere someone was pressing down on a resistance-heavy lever. Protruding, the horns gleamed like freshly polished white beans.

Surfer On The Drift

From today:

I could hear the goliath, the scrip-scrape of ghost skin.  And I could hear Tube Man snapping, performing his come-hither, come-with-me-to-Hell dance.

Exit The Skin Palace

Behold the majesty of Jenny Dayton's work-in-progress...

Surfer On The Drift

From today:

The approaching form had the same features as most Hangmen.  Eyes on the side of the head, a nose like a beak that couldn't decide between being flesh or bone so it was a little of both, and underneath the snout, a lipless mouth, packed full of sharp tiny teeth.  And from head to toe, including the tiny useless T. Rex arms extending from the torso and the claws jutting out from the top of each wing, someone had slathered the beast in a mixture resembling roofing tar.  Basically, it looked like Satan's idea of a pet bird.