… Ahh… and so you've returned yet again.
It's been a little while, hasn't it? Well, maybe more than a little. It doesn't matter though, what matters is you've returned. Again and again. We knew you would - I'm happy to see you.
Do you crave them still? Stories, all those stories. There are always more stories out there. How about the one about the child with the little friend, the friend who stayed behind when the child went away? Or what about the one of the cat, the wrong cat? And there's so many more out there. The spider who wove a lie, the window inside of a house, the music above the lake…
Don't answer. We know the answer, don't we? You always want more stories, don't you, Gears?
And they want you.

Untitled1.txt by Bright

Happy Birthday!

untitled1-txt

I Always Follow by Dexanote

Happy Birthday to the grandest of admins. I hope this next year is wonderful.

I follow her from afar, her beauty staining through the months like ink through a paper. It's as if the world kneels to her; when she's there everything is brighter and more full of life. As if all nature wells up to celebrate and sing to her. She's somebody who gives all of herself and has more to spare. A sublime artist.
It begins with cold, ugly white, a pale nothing, an easel she could work with. She prepares, first a sketch of black and grey, charcoal thin lines grasping every which way. Starkness, to begin. Something she could adorn and cover with her true vision.
And in time her vision came to bloom. Shade and colour, a million lines spread wide like arms. I grew closer, and it was like her very life became a sweeping, boundless work of art. Stark paleness grew into a gorgeous rainbow, her confidence and artistry boundless.
Every year is different, but it was in April that she first found passion. Everything seemed so much more… full of colour then. More alive. Her most tender caress, coaxing the most delicate of her favourites to stand so tall… How lucky are they to know her touch.
Do you hear it? In the night, the softness of her breath, carried on the wind… I envy the wind, I admit. To be so close to her, and for so long.
She is beautiful. But at the end of it all, what I love the most is her humanity.
Tenderness aside, she's anything but delicate. Strength is hers, equal to her tenderness. The days when she dances, it's as if heaven itself cracks open all across the world. Her footsteps irregular, erratic, resonant, dressed in a long gown of trailing white and grey, soft and powerful.
Even the mightiest things in all creation kneel when she dances, when she twirls without a care for anything but the motion…
It is not all sunshine and rainbows, of course. As the months creep by, my love finds herself on a downswing.
From a world away I watch as she flows from away spirit and into stagnation, my heart breaking as the stillness sets in. It is agony to watch. Weeks pass, and her inspiration dries up; it's as if the land itself is sundered, and all her friends bow and weep at her torpor.
I almost break, almost broke this time. I debated, wanting to reach out and lend her my hand, to pull her up and see her eyes, to sooth her and snatch her away from her misery. But I didn't, I let her be. I needed to see her like this. Everybody did, everybody did so they could see her highs and her lows. To appreciate her as I do. To miss her later.
She suffers, but soon she changes. Not slowly and not quickly, I watch as her torpor becomes anger. Like a queen she rages. Reckless and frustrated. Time and again she throws herself at her cherished things, her fury sweeping across and swallowing everything she loves. The most neglected are the least lucky, they crumble into nothing as her fury fades.
Sometimes she tries to salvage her work. She does her best, but now she's tired. At this point there's less… brightness. The nights seem a little darker, her hands a little less busy. She still creates, absolutely. But… not as much.
I can't wait any longer. So the day comes when I follow her, closer than before. She's tired, her mind not so sharp. Exhaustion was taking her. Nobody can stay so bright for so long.
I inhale the warmth of her perfume, fresh and clean on the wind as it's always been. Gorgeous, a beautiful scent, filling lungs with vitality and hints of chrysanthemum and goldenrod. I'm on the horizon.
I reach and take her, my sunshine, my fingers cold against her sun-kissed cheek. Reunited for that brief moment in our eternal dance.
She shudders, my whisper reaching her ears, creeping across the evening breeze. Her eyes, melancholy. My bite, a chill. Resignation against exhilaration. Her fall.
Cruel reds and yellows bleed across the canvas as she dies another year, soon to fade into the cold nights, destined to return one day to white.
And seasons change again.

The Market, by Zyn

Happy birthday!

In the depths of dreamed cathedrals, in the bridge between blindness and sight, there exists a market for final things.
Most of the merchants there are collectors, engaging in the trade as a form of petty competition with their peers. No two merchants deal in the same product, but all of them have the otherworldly means to offer currencies that cannot be traced. Some merchants prefer to tempt customers with promises of tasks carried out, such as the quiet sabotage of a business rival or the subtle manipulation of the target of one's affections. Others prefer to trade with those who are more desperate for the deal, and wish for merely the simplicity of a safe travel home, the reassurance that a loved one will survive a storm, the strength to see the next day to its completion.
There is Silence, who wears a mantle of silver-grey silk and collects last words spoken. Silence carries a sack full of enchanted shells the size of human skulls, magicked to trap sound in their curled depths and echo the words endlessly for those who press the ridges close to their ear.
There is Spite, who craves the last burn of hatred. Spite dresses exuberantly and flamboyantly, in flaming colors that dazzle the eyes and distract the senses. Spite wears a strange contraption of belts around their spidery form; these belts hold slots of tiny vials, which when pressed to the heart, begin to glow a deep burgundy and fill with a substance likened to both ambrosia and ichor. Those who have been treated by Spite speak of the merchant's cabinet of distilled liquors, each possessing the same dark red glow when poured into crystal glasses.
There is Decay, whose face is never seen, who wears the scraps of linen scarves that have seen ages and ages past, and seeks the last memory of health before one lapses into the weariness of age or sickness. Decay carries a pouch of seeds said to lie dormant until allowed to absorb the health of another being; Decay keeps to themselves so no one knows what these seeds grow into. Some whisper that the plants are beautiful, flowering magnificently into towering blossoms ten times the size of any seen in nature. Others caution that they grow into twisted reflections of true plants, and produce a ripe gnarled fruit that is the sole means of sustenance for Decay's continued existence.
There is Death, who deals in the last spark of life held within a human body. Death is the only reluctant merchant, who is shrewd with their deals and secretive with their ambitions.
Those who walk the world are warned against making promises to these merchants. Once a deal is struck, there is no forward notice of when a merchant will arrive to gather their due, and there are some who take pains to ensure that the collection date is as soon as possible…

Carry On, by Aiden Eldritch

Let's get back to our roots for yet another revolution round the sun, shall we? Happy birthday, you old terror.

Dear Citizen,
In the event of this document's dissemination to the general public, it has come to the attention of the Attorney-General that an extreme threat to the safety of Her Majesty's Kingdom has presented itself, one that cannot be countered through standard diplomatic and military means.
While the nature of this threat is strictly classified, we would like to require nonetheless that citizens take the following precautions to defend themselves against it. Compliance with these instructions is not mandatory but failing to comply will result in significant damage, both to you and your neighbours: as such we recommend in the strongest possible language you follow these simple instructions to protect yourself in these trying times.
Precaution No. 1: Stay inside for as long as possible.
The threat entity will most strongly affect citizens outside their homes and other buildings, causing hallucinations and brain damage with sufficient exposure. Citizens should remain indoors where possible and only take trips outside with personal protective equipment such as gas masks, blindfolds and earplugs.
Between the hours of 5-6 AM, do not answer knocking at the door. Pay attention only to the state broadcasts that will take place during this time.
Where possible, ignore requests for help from outside your home — government officials will be able to assist individuals in need more effectively, without the risk of harm that untrained civilians will incur.
Precaution No. 2: Remain clear of electronic equipment not distributed by trusted sources.
Government workers will visit your homes to distribute electronic equipment deemed safe for use while the threat is present. Other electronic devices, especially those capable of playing video and audio media, should not be used and preferably destroyed — officials will also provide disposal options for citizens seeking to remove these potential hazards from their homes.
Precaution No. 3: Compromised individuals should be turned over to government officials immediately.
Easily-observed signs of the threat having affected a citizen include audio/visual hallucinations, obsession with advertising media, and persistent cough. When in doubt about the status of an individual, turn them over to government officials for diagnosis: should they prove to be non-compromised, they will be returned to their prior location and reimbursed appropriately. Successful identification of a compromised individual will be rewarded with material goods such as food rations and batteries for electronic devices.
More complex ways to verify that a citizen has not been compromised include:

Ability to recognise official documentation: Documents bearing the insignia of the Government of the United Kingdom are apparently imperceptible to impostors or officials compromised by the threat. Ask to see an official's credentials before letting them into your home.
Absence of electronic distortion in their presence: TV and radio signals will be heavily corrupted in the presence of a compromised individual, and these corrupted signals are another vector for the spread of the threat. If you recognise distortion unexplainable by distance, location or other external factors, immediately shut off all electronic devices and submit individuals suspected to be compromised to the government.
Unwillingness to comply with these instructions: For a compromised individual, spread of the threat is a priority higher than ensuring their own survival. Refusal to comply with these quarantine procedures (most commonly by attempting to assist individuals outside, giving infected food to neighbors, distributing untrustworthy media) should be treated as a sign of compromise by the threat.

The Government of the United Kingdom thanks you for your continued compliance in these extremely trying times, and assures you that these procedures will both assure your personal safety and assist in the eventual eradication of this threat from this country.
Regards,
Keller Baden-Smith
Secretary of the Department for Managing Outside-Context Events

You want to hear a two-sentence horror story?

Well, you're not gonna get one.

The last person on Earth sat in a room. How are you reading this?
I'm the last person on earth, and I couldn't be happier. She turned to me with that gorgeous loving smile that made my heart flutter, I was the luckiest person in the world. I had nothing but the best intentions when I threw myself over that grenade.
"Oh sugar, did you actually think I loved you?"
In hindsight, maybe that was her plan all along. It angers the thing at the end of your bed. You know, I always loved the way her eyes reflected the moonlight. That doesn't really matter anymore, now, does it?
A woman knocked on my door asking for her jewelry back. Now that I live alone, it is much more unsettling. I'm not talking to you. I know your search history.
As the monster's shadow fell upon her, she knew she did not have long to live. If you turn around, you might even see me coming. When it stopped, we couldn't even scream.
March on march on, upon the bright day, march on march on this dark and dreary way. There are millions of stars in the sky, countless worlds in the cosmos. The stars are in the wrong places tonight. Then I realized the sun had gone out.
I've been trying to go to sleep for a while now. This may take some time. A tree falls in the forest, and nobody hears. Have to keep the fire going. Good thing bodies burn. Turning on the lights just makes you easier to find. A tree falls in the forest, and there is nobody left to listen.
There's nothing in the dark that isn't there in the light. That's what I used to say. People hate the truth. Lie oh lie, for you face truth when you die. It didn't take long for me to realize that I didn't want to die after all.
"What am I being charged with, Officer?" You're thinking I can't possibly do this. If I run up the stairs fast enough, it won't get me. He didn't believe I needed to keep existing. They told me I might not survive the operation before putting me to sleep. When I woke up in a coffin, I realised that they had assumed I died.
You believed God didn't exist. People hate the truth. The truth doesn't care. God is real. Do you really think God can hear your prayers above the screaming?
I was the last one to turn off the light. I sat there in the darkness, waiting for the inevitable. There was nothing else to do here.
There weren't any sentences left, after all.
There was a knock at the door.

Shave And A Haircut by Roget

hide this filth

I need to get myself cut. Growing out too long for too many days. It's time to stop putting it off.
I've always hated going to the barbershop. The stale, sickly odor of cleaning products hangs in the air all day. A spinning spire representing blood of this professions past announces the stable to all who might approach it. Knives and blades line the shelves between blue plastic bottles and broken dreams. Sometimes, the walls decorate themselves with past news and trinkets. All just distractions from what these places do.
Some of my earliest memories are of the barbers shop. Not a lot of coherent imagery, but the thrashing and emotion of my resistance rings still through the years. Spaced them out as long as I could, but even now I find myself tripping over the outstretched gangling of what I have grown. It's a mess. A really big mess. Bigger than any I ever made pitching a fit over getting hair cut.
I stand in front of the glass doors. My reflection is dark and blurred. Inside there are men at work, paring off mustaches, beards, parts and follicles. Figures sit silently in each seat until their turn is done. They fall free from their self-grown earthbound nature.
They whip the apron around, and before I can settle down they begin cutting me down to size. For a few moments there's a ripping pain, but then as the cutter gets to his work I find myself and my complaints drowned by the sound of the grinding gears. Hunkering to myself I wait for the storm to pass me by.
Finally, the cutter relents. A loud thump falls to the floor as my dead weight collapses beneath me. Despite it all, I feel liberated. A great weight removed from my form. I can see others fluttering off as the cutters roll their bodies behind to a door and out of sight.
As I slowly descend to the floor, the cutter points to the limp bode lying on the floor. I say nothing as I leave.
There's a wind carrying me up, light as a feather and free as a bird. A hair cut free and fast.

We the Jury Sentence the Defendant

to the Purgatory Program.

…
"You're a real prick you know that? You don't get a gold star for buying me an empanada. I just wanted a ride home, away from that asshole." She said, as she walked towards me. I felt a jolt, and looked down to see my liver in her hand, her freshly painted nails standing out against the dark red blood. The pain came next. Everything was red fresh agony, as she laid in to my guts with raw strength I couldn't even fathom…

I sat down on the E train car, and pulled out my phone. I'd managed to find the only car that didn't have a homeless guy camped out in it, and opened my E-reader app.
Someone's getting on, but I'm not gonna turn my head. Rules of the subway, never look at anyone else. That would acknowledge that they're there, and that's not okay.
Oh god, I can smell it now, there's this…horrifying stench. Homeless guy is getting on the train. Fuck me, I mean…shit, I want to fix the homeless problem. But I still have to get to work, and I don't want to smell like rancid shit.
I hunker down a bit, as he drags five plastic bins on the train, creating a little hobo apartment. Fuck man. I'd get up, but he's in front of the closest door, and his crap is in the way.
I hear him now, "Hey, I don't wanna cause trouble, can anyone spare some change? Just a quarter or something, just anything? If not, I understand, God bless…"
He walks past me a couple times, there's three or four other people on the train, I don't carry cash, but even if I do, I tell them I don't. I want to fix the problem, but come on. I shouldn't have to deal with this in the morning.
He stops in front of me. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Is this guy gonna do something crazy and attack me. I feel his eyes on me, the smell is completely overwhelming. "Hey buddy. Spare some change? Anything'll help."
I look up, and his eyes lock on mine, his face covered in dirt and worse. "I don't carry cash, sorry."
He shuffles a step to the little fortress of dirty blankets and bins he's set up on the bench. I look down at my phone, reading again. "Ever get tired of that shit, Chris?"
The sound of my voice causes me to look up. He's not stooping over anymore, as he stares at me. "I mean, come on. 'Don't carry cash'? You just ate a $4.10 protein bar from the World Trade vending machines. You're just a dick."
I get angry, and put my phone down, "Hey, fuck off buddy. I'm not the one begging for change. I'm going to work!" My words ring out angrily, and I cringe slightly as the sound hits my own ears. I didn't mean to yell so loud.
"You're a real prick, you know that? All I wanted was some food." He walks forward, and shoves his dirty fingers in to my mouth, the taste of the disgusting milleiu invading my senses. He's choking me, and the pain slowly increases as I feel an intense pressure on my spine. Why won't anyone help me! With a loud crack I…

"How many more?" The man in the grey suit says to the younger man beside him. His companion sits in front of a series of monitors showing the subject's vital signs.
"Six-hundred twelve." The young man replies, looking down at the sobbing, heavy-set man in the chair. Electrodes stream down to his skull, and a quietly pulsing machine glowing with some internal light hummed in time with the impulses.
"Six-hundred eleven, that one's done. After this, we can move on to racism, then violence?" The man in the grey suit checks off a box on his clipboard. "I'll let the Director know."
The heavy-set man's sobs echoed in to the white-painted walls of the halls, as he relived his every slight, every sin and his victims got their state-sanctioned revenge.

Don't by Doctor Cimmerian

Don't Don't Don't Don't Don't

Don't worry, there's no one else down here but you and me.
They left you because I snapped your ankle. Don't blame them.
Your other friends out there right now with the police. They'll convince them to come here with guns and tanks and no one will think they're crazy. No one will think they killed you.
Then again maybe no one is coming. They know what this looks like. Maybe they'll just go home. Better to live guilty than judged.
Honestly am I so bad? It's quiet, it's dark, and it's warm down here. Why would you want to go back to the cowards and killers?
Don't worry. You're the first friend I've had in years. We can play together! But first we need to take care of that ankle.
There. Now they're both broken. Don't scream! This is a happy place!
I'm sorry! I'll fix your feet!
How did that make it worse? You're not being a very good friend. Don't be like them. Stop crying!
I'm going to cover up your face until you stop making noise. There. Isn't that better? Quiet.
We've got so much more time together.
Staying quiet is so much better isn't it? Friend?
Don't go.

Hush by Shaggydredlocks

Don't say a word.

The end of humanity.
It is a slow, incremental end. A war of attrition - one that has been playing out for decades, if not centuries.
At first, it seemed like they were content with our upper echelon; our politicians, our kings, our rulers. The invaders took them, one by one, with the apparent purpose of subjugating Earth and her people; or perhaps they sought to mine our resources after consolidating power. It is only now that I realize what it is that they really want.
They're parasites; and they won't rest until every man, woman, and child is host to their foul spawn. I know this now.
It begins with a buzzing. That's their probe. It's how you know you're infected. Next come the sirens: gawdawful, grating, shrill chimes and clanks that induce migraines in listeners. It's how they communicate with one another. This way, they can plot and scheme in the open while the uninfected remain oblivious.
I can hear it now. I can, I can feel it. I certainly hear it.
I imagine the plight of a late-stage carrier. What must it be like, to be confined to that dark space in the back of your mind? To become a passenger, an observer, as the puppeteer wears your face?
I imagine it to be a fate worse than death. I must concentrate on this fact. I need to. It may make what I'm about to do more bearable.
I clean my knife. I'll have silence yet.
I creep across the kitchen, tip-toe through the darkness, avoid the places that creak and groan. Adam is a light sleeper, and I wouldn't want to wake the boy. If any of the Things wearing my family wake, this one will give me the hardest time, so I'm visiting him first.
I say a silent prayer as I slip through the sheet hanging in his doorframe. It's like stepping into the grave. Save for the pale amber glow pouring through the sheet, his room is pitch-black. My oldest son lay reclined in an easy-chair in front of the television. In a few, calculated steps, I'm behind him.
I ready my hands. My dominant hand holds the blade horizontally, an inch from his its throat; the second is poised, cupped, ready to cover his mouth.
It really is a shame. He'd been getting better recently; at managing his rage, showing temperance. He was on track to grow into fine young man. Then again, this was most likely the parasite at work.
'A fate worse than death', I remind myself, and I make my move.
Damn it if it doesn't try. It flails about wildly with its free hand while the other tries to keep the blood in. It screams its little electronic heart out the whole time, growing louder and louder. Loud enough, I fear, to wake the others. My probe hears its cries. It responds in kind, vibrating intensely as its comrade bleeds out. The sirens cease, the probe falls still. I rise.
I clean my knife. I'll have silence yet.
The twins are next. Molly and Ann's bedroom is right at the top of the stairs. I keep my eyes to the ground - I can't get lost in the photos on the wall. I can't waste a single minute reminiscing, wishing there was another way. Not while I'm still in control.
The girls' room is brightly lit from Molly's night-light; it projects stars and planets on the walls which circulate lazily about the room. Molly's tucked away in a tussle of sheets, and Ann has kicked her blankets to the floor again. I start towards her IT first.
Deep breaths. I close my eyes. I concentrate on what needs to be done. What has to be done. I focus on the torment she must be experiencing, the hell of being imprisoned in one's own mind.
Her parasite doesn't have a chance to sing. She herself squeaks, and falls limp.
I move swiftly to her sisters bedside, quickly tear away the sheet, silently raise the blade. Her parasite wakes before her. It screams, and my probe responds with a furious shake in protest. She stirs, sees me above her, notices what I'm holding.
I look anywhere but her eyes until the sirens stop, and my probe become inert. Each of my angels receive a parting kiss on the forehead before I tuck them in.
I clean my knife. I'll have silence yet.
I make it back to the hallway. I vomit; swallow it. I skip over the bathroom and open my bedroom door. The love of my life lies asleep in our bed, quietly curled up around one of her King novels with her glasses pressed awkwardly out-of-place. A perfect picture of the woman she once was.
They know how to do this. To play 'you'. It's what makes them so dangerous. It's why no-one else will catch on. It's how they'll take us all, eventually. The least I can do is to spare them. It's my duty as a father and as a husband to protect them. I—
The siren comes suddenly, shocking me back to the moment. The thing in Suzan's body rouses its puppet, who mumbles incoherently. It strains to focus its eyes before a look of realization surfaces. It cries out in horror, asks me why I'm covered in blood.
Everything becomes a blur. I'm all speed and fury and vengeance. I stab her again, and again, and again and again and I lose count after that.
It takes far too long for me to register that the noise, the vibrations, her fighting, have long since ended. I let myself fall off of her. I hit the ground with a heavy thud, I piss myself. It takes a minute to come to, and I rise to a knee. Need to stay, need to stay calm. I have to. I need to stay strong. It is at this moment that I hear my youngest cry out through the baby monitor. My heart sinks into the ground.
I clean my knife. I'll have silence yet.

I stand over its crib. It looks up at me with my son's big, dopey eyes. I ready my knife. It blows a bubble. I focus as hard as possible on the alternative, on the fate worse than death. I concentrate on how he'll never know freedom, or be able to live his life. His parasite calls out, taunting me and beckoning to my probe.
I press down and don't stop until I reach bone, and all is quiet.
I'm only just able to back away from the scene, double over as everything hits me all at once. Waves of bile come pouring out of me, punctuated with brief gasps for breath. My body's wracked with shakes and convulsions as I let it all go. The torrent slowly fades into dry heaves, hyperventilation, hiccups. A laugh. I did it. The bastards can have me now for all I care! I shift my weight, laughing some more, satisfied with my victory.
The sirens begin again, the vibrating. I become aware of a familiar lump in my back pocket. I fish it out.
Alarm - 2:00 a.m.
Alarm - 2:05 a.m. - Repeat
Alarm - 2:10 a.m. - Repeat
Alarm - 2:15 a.m. - Repeat
Next alarm in 04:46 - tap to snooze
I clean my knife. I let silence find me.

Lurch, by minmin

– hide block

On Monday Eva woke up to find that her right foot had swelled to the approximate length of fifty-two point five centimetres.
She treated that matter with some degree of cautious alarm. This was a matter of concern, for she knew that the average woman's foot bore a size of twenty-five point two centimetres - adjusted for height and weight, naturally. Why she knew that was of no concern to her. What mattered was her foot. It wasn't that it had actually been bigger - for no matter how she looked at it, squinted at it, compared them against the shadows on her wall - by all senses other than her physical, her foot had indeed swelled. Experimentally, she supposed whether her foot had been twenty-five point three centimetres, or twenty-five point four. And so on and so forth, until she had reached the comfortable number upper bound of fifty-two point five - or uncomfortably large, as it now were.
She sat up in bed for a while, taking in the stock of her new body. Then, gingerly, experimentally, as one might move a boil close to popping, she wriggled her toes. It felt like moving a string. Not numb, but at a distance. Slowly, she lifted her new foot up over her sheets and rested it on the floor, finding in the act a new weight, a new purchase, that she had never felt before.
Eva took a step across her room, feeling her body lurch over her like a skyscraper.
She thought of calling her doctor, but her inner voice produced vaguely a Chinese saying: Cure the head when the head is in pain - cure the foot when the foot is in pain. The problem then lay in deciding whether the saying was more idiom than proverb. Should she have called him? He was entirely a man of the mind, prescribing little white pills for little white pains. What knew he of the foot?
She dragged her useless foot to the shower, reeling as she went. Jackknife-step-jackknife-step, like a reverse pendulum, and it was only when she reached the door that she realised her other foot had swelled, too, large and clumsy like a block of wood. Lurching, she reached for the door handle, steadying herself just in time with a hand that had until recently been her own.
Tall, too tall! The door gave. Eva squeezed her body through, a puppet a million miles away, frantically emerging on the other side, hallway stretching before her. Presently she thought of the meds, in the drawer by the bedside. Too late for that now. The other end, the bathroom, the ones she had hid in the unfinished crack between the mirror and the wall. Feeling herself borne along the hall as much as being pulled by her own feet, she stumbled, her body now a land, a foreign country, stretching as it were down before her and paradoxically ending at the walls, smaller as they were than herself. A vision gripped her, dredged from dream, of dizzying spaces within spaces and strange Escherian hierarchies. She heaved, and from somewhere north of her center of self, something responded. But nothing came up, for it had too far to travel.
The bathroom - the door! Somehow she brushed through it, hearing its creak and seeing the sun reflecting against its porcelain tiles, the yellow light of morning implausibly red-shifted into pure bright, the colour of the vaults of heaven, and the mirror, the mirror, reaching through with arms the size of skyscrapers, and the dark crack behind it. The black glass - no! - the black glass bottle - drink me! - between universe fingers slipping in terrifying abyss drop. Far, so far! She was bigger than herself, now, seeing herself look through the windows of her bathroom, her house, her body placing her outside of its safe walls, until the walls broke -
Eva opened her eyes through the vaulted windows of her flat and sighed and wondered how she had ever let anything get itself to a point resembling this.