righterwriter

Silas looked into his vanity mirror, sucking in his cheeks and then letting them out as Al listened to his breathing.  He had changed a lot since he had come to the guild.  He looked… healthier, somehow.  Was it his hair?  It wasn’t falling out at such an alarming rate anymore.  His skin?  He still looked quite pale, but perhaps less so.  He gently slapped his cheeks and turned his face from once side to another. “Al, do you think I’ve put on weight?” he asked. She scoffed and put her stethoscope away.  “It’s better this way.” Of course she would know.

      I haven't slept in three days. Still sugar high. Everyone here is. All the time. But we're slowly... No. We're rather quickly running out. Everyone's in a panic. All rushing around, fighting through crowds of people to get their fix. People here will do anything for sugar.      Oh. There's the alarm. It's official--we're out of sugar. Now the withdrawals begin. This hasn't happened since the Great Depletion--but that was years and years ago. I wasn't around to see it, but my grandfather was. Now he's always a cube-pincher. He saves empty sugar tins because "There's still good sugar in there!" I guess I can see where he's coming from n

Daddy throws the plane high into the sky and into a tree—those things always break. Isn’t that what they’re made to do?        one use and they’re broken; Then you move on, leaving the old in the dirt where it fell. One time was all it took. “My momma didn’t raise no dummies,” as she says. She wouldn’t break like the others. She, the                day He, the night. With each turn, I burrowed deeper, trying to find just one place. One        Place to live One        Place to sleep One        Peaceful night Sometimes one is better than two. The burrow has been made a little

      Autumn evenings at the Dál Rial were usually busy.  Everyone was getting off work, so the bar would fill up with tired, stressed-out Fae looking for a couple of beers and someone to drink them with.  The buzz of pleasant chatter was mingled with the humming of the fireside pipes and thumping of the bodhrán.  The cheery orange lighting recalled pumpkin pies and mugs of spiced mead shared with friends.  Everywhere were scarves and coats and hats, gratefully doffed in favor of the warm atmosphere of the pub.      Kenzi was downing her fourth shot of whiskey and Bo was finishing off her second glass of homemade, home brewed eggnog.