The klaxons blared in the creeping fog of the neon demon night...

[sotmh]

The Sorrowed Merchant lifted his face from the damp newsprint, the reversed words forming soft soliloquies to better times. The puddle mocked his nostalgia with reflective suffering, a reminder of ages gone and the horrible truths that haunt his waking moments and whisper hopeless slumber to his ego-stripped subconscious. He decided it would be today. Fridays are like that.

 

[hong]

Suddenly, a shot rang out!

 

[Umbran]

"In the tower of the Nameless Necromancer, it is always cold."

(stolen from Mary Gentle)

 

[Tobold Hornblower]

Who's that coming out of the woods?

They're chanting. Sounds like?!?...

"Kshalfe. Kshalfe tounphug. Kshalfe tounphug."

then...

"Ratatösk. Ratatösk pharol czostruis ponthicelli. Nellang region inesploraph."

again and again...

"Ratatösk pharol czostruis ponthicelli. Nellang region inesploraph."

"Ratatösk pharol czostruis ponthicelli. Nellang region inesploraph."

"Ratatösk pharol czostruis ponthicelli. Nellang region inesploraph."

 

[Desdichado]

Evocative is all well and good, but does this go anywhere?

 

[Scarbonac]

Jerry paused in the midst of his daughter's entrails, blood and bile dripping incontinently from the corners of his puffy lips and mingling with the unspeakable crusts matted into his tangled rats'-nets of a beard. His head was cocked to one side, listening to the quavering voices of broken angels only he could hear.

He swallowed a length of tasty, still-warm duodenum.

 

[sotmh]

The Firstborne Nightmare gave in to temptation and gathered his playthings into his glamorwoven sack. Stalking carefully between the quiet places and the moments before terror sets in he made his way through the city. On the way he stole peace from the children and their parents and poured salt into the draughts of sugarjoy set out for the Shapers. Work could wait, this was a night for games.

 

[Felonious Ntent]

A body drops to the ground as The Theif disappears back into the shadows. Another stolen soul to add to the collection. This was a good night to be on the prowl.

 

[Droid101]

Ten bramblebirches ran pleasantly toward their oily beds.

Only a third of three could hear the impending mock of all the reasonable reckoning in store for moth-kind.

Why does fauna preach delicately wind-blown arches?

Bird-legged arachnid overlords launch tickled pickets from their long tendrils of glass.

 

[A2Z]

The wheels on the bus go round and round... over the bleached bones of long dead children. Round and round...