A.Journal

Checks

299 checks

Easy

Bloody pawprints on the grass, none on its fur.

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Gummy rubber tip gone brittle.

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The smell that drifts from the soggy interior is an unpleasant mix of mildew and urine.

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The smell that drifts from the soggy interior is an unpleasant mix of stale coffee and mildew.

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The smell that drifts from the soggy interior is an unpleasant mix of sour alcohol and mildew.

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Glossy metal finish, no hint of rust or weathering.

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You hear a splat, followed by a man's yell. A woman cheers, 'Ectoplasm!'

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One props up a sign which says: 'INTERNATIONAL PARTY CONFERENCE PARTY 66'.

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Far left. A frame built for violence. Bulbous glistening skull shaved bare every morning.

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Tk-tk-tk. The sound of a pen marking three boxes in short succession.

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Tk. The sound of a box being marked on a standard form.

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Another tk. Another form.

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Tk. The sound of a box being marked on a standard form.

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Tk. The sound of a box being marked on a standard form.

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Tk. The sound of a box being marked on a standard form.

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The skin -- clammy, coarse.

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Gentle electronic tones rise and recede from it like the tide against a digital beach.

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Suprema 100. Like the ones your double brought.

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Suprema 100. Smoked by tens of millions across the People's Republics.

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Comically vague. Very little to work with.

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The vendor sighs and seems to deflate ever so slightly before your eyes.

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Nostrils flare like hairy little cannons.

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Veins rise like old roots beneath his thin skin.

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Little bits of foam stick to it, and there are broken pieces at the side. She's torn it from something else.

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She flaps her hands around inside them to demonstrate volume.

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A light pink flush on her cheeks.

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Fresh blood vessels pop in his eyes.

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A labcoat splattered with blood both new and old.

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A noose around his neck. A labcoat splattered with blood both new and old.

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She rubs the card between her discerning thumb and forefinger.

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She pats her left hand dry on the tea towel hanging from the cupboard. There are tiny little daisies on it.

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In the background you can hear the sound of machinery and men hurling masculine insults at each other as cargo is hauled from ship to shore.

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Raindrops gather on the wreckage overhead.

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You see a haze of coloured light, dark figures moving within.

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You hear laughter and music ahead.

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Dust and carbon paper flakes dance in the circle of light.

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A vast improvement on your current odour.

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Wet cloth and iron dust. Foul. Chemical.

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The sweet smell of ripening waste drifts up from dozens of household bins.

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The rumble of flowing water beneath your feet.

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The sound of water outside. Use it as your guide.

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A gate opened -- it shouldn't have. Pull it again!

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And the cling of metal on stone. You're on the right track.

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A high-pitched whine from a motor.

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Main drive engaged.

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The cabinets too.

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Expired coffee, greasy condiment residue. Typewriter ink. Chemically processed wood pulp.

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XXs and smudged ink where the author struggled with a sticky key on the typewriter.

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Scent of metaphysical essence as yet undetected. Possible fabrication.