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27 checks

A flicker of river-green, bright and unguarded, before the glasses slide back down.

Currently a balmy 14 degrees, under threat from a cold air mass moving across the Noscorrentes Sea.

Bet it's the fucking grammage.

There is a difference -- you brush against it, but all too light, too quick.

Your heart hollows. Just a thumping muscle where the feeling should be.

A chorus of hacking coughs, like cats throwing up furballs in unison.

Deprived of sight, the inches of paper travelled by your pen feel like chasms.

Darkness in his eyes. Inviting.

Something about 'Poor Maurito' and 'devil women.'

Distantly, as if echoed through many floors of concrete, you hear him.

It probably sounds a lot more impressive on an actual drum.

A hot fragrance of mango and mountain grass blooms through your air canals.

The soft, airy fur seems to defy gravity.

'Sounds like a first stab'.

The air gets heavier, as if you were being annexed by gravity.

No suture-line. No scar. Only two little droplets of liquid solidifying as one.

So bitter you can taste it on your own tongue.

His eyes peer through an inverse cascade of smoke.

You can. Your fingers sink into the receiver as if the plastic were suddenly the plump, warm flesh of her waist.

Crackling, soft warm smoke equal parts sweet and musky fills your mouth.

You catch the scent of iron on the breeze.

Also visible: A micro-compact auto pistol and a blister pack of statins.

A shame. A good weather report's harder to produce than it looks.

Through the television screen, his eyes meet yours.

She touches a hand to the wounds on her chest.

It's not climbing fast, but it is climbing.

Warm cottage cheese dragged through battery acid.

27 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual