'Come here, my little friend' the weekend warrior suggests, taking his weapon from its shelf and staring with intent focus at one point on the white wall by the kitchen stove. one flick,one kill! he breathes out his ki sharply. The master of Iaido fly-swatting wipes the scene of the murder with tissue then washes his hands of it.
Updated 02-10-2009 at 09:13 PM by Silas Thorne
there were secret paths known to us, bird**** paths within bridges where we could walk straddling electrical cable: Deathstar catwalks, an empty vast droppingdown on both sides, where the wind gets in making the inside, outside. Without keys, no adult could get in there, but we were adventurers, magicians, coming out behind our parents waiting for us on the other bank, who wondered where the hell we'd got ...
Updated 02-10-2009 at 05:45 PM by Silas Thorne
They scare me, long and epic words stern and alien, like an evil aunt constantly patting your head, who gives you boiled sweets that take forever to dissolve that solitary black sandal someone left at the bus stop.
[CENTER] [IMG]http://i735.photobucket.com/albums/ww354/litnetnews/header-1.gif[/IMG] [SIZE="5"] [FONT="Book Antiqua"][I]February 2009[/FONT][/SIZE][/CENTER][/I]Welcome to the Valentine edition of The Literature Networks online newspaper. Every month, we will keep you updated with information regarding threads, contests, Book Club and lots more! This month we have a special Anonymus Valentine section. Scroll down, check it out, and if your name is on the list, expect a ...
Updated 03-02-2009 at 09:52 AM by newsletter
Firin' sinistral fingers up with skyward lurches I'm hangin' with the hot shock vultures, under bridges, torn-out eyes on stalks, bouncin' in the twilight breezes and crumpin' with Black Venus in the space between perches, hunting by the edges for lost change and trinkets, lost, within searches.
Updated 02-09-2009 at 12:07 AM by Silas Thorne
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