I try to reach the alarm, but my body’s too shaky. Ain’t no one gonna come for me now. And that man in his brown dusty coat is disappearing into the night. He ain’t laughin’, and he ain’t mad. He’s just doing his job, and I admire that. I can’t stand someone who pretends to be business-like but backs everything with philosophy.

Elizabeth fell asleep in a cave on an island, surrounded by tropical plants and crawling crabs who burbled songs from the shallows. She woke up on a bank of sand surrounded by wild pigs who sniffed at her face as if it were a truffle. She started up, then felt bad about scaring the pigs away and gestured them back, but a crack rang out some ( Read more... )

Once again, my laziness demanded deferring to another writer to finish one of my stories. So here's an unintentional collaboration with Felix Macaroni, the one with the hat.

I.
Part I is written by The Starving Artist etc., etc.

A caterpillar lived in a lemon, and called herself Otum. She was brown and striped with forest green to better blend with ( Read more... )

To the old, battered dog who falls on his feet ( Read more... )

Drops that fall from the pillars up high ( Read more... )

Can you help me, O Barnaby Pluck? I’m looking for the market and I’m plum out of luck.
A man said it lay here, ‘tween Hartford and Church, but I just can’t find it, how ever I search.
There’d be people with baskets and merchants with wares.
Tell me you’ve seen it, O please Mister Pluck.
Why are you silent, O Barnaby Pluck? Why do you stare like a ( Read more... )

I was busier this time around, so Derfü helped me edit this one.

Part II

Fleeing Germany was the end of one life for Elizabeth, but she would gradually come to realize that the most important parts of her journey had not begun. Something stirred within her which the mundane affairs of any state in Europe could not fit. She yearned for something ( Read more... )

A Taile by Lilia Horfmeister
Part I

Elizabeth, they called an unlucky child, as if luck had forsaken her life, but she would later say that being born two months early in the middle of a textile factory and getting lost in the machinery for several hours was the beginning of a life governed by luck. She was four pounds underweight, missing an eye, ( Read more... )

This story is a collaboration between one Felix Macaroni and The Starving Artist Who Doesn't Feel Like Writing Her Long Ass Retarded Name Anymore (i.e. me).

Thus it begins:

I awoke on flat ground with the glow of the half-moon on my face. What memory I once had of life on Earth fled in those instants between sleep and waking. By the time I was sure I ( Read more... )