A.Journal

Checks

290 checks

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His eyes, like flies around a corpse: tiny, ugly and relentless.

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A maverick hero, fallen from grace and brought back for one last job...

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It is not one for the gallery spaces, but both of their faces are most likely visible.

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Murals in a dirty alley, defaced and repainted. CASCADE graffitied onto a moving train. A thousand new revolutionaries laying flowers on your grave.

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Mist hangs below the tram like gun smoke.

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There is nothing in your future besides ritual humiliation and torture -- so take heart. You have nothing to lose and everything to overthrow.

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Or listen with him. You'll die, but you will know.

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Crushed between two walls, even in her last moments.

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The secret meaning of this gesture will be analysed and debated by the conspiratorial community for years to come.

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A revenant is stalking you through the city.

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An anatomically correct human heart.

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This was the human game, and he played it poorly. Time to give up his seat.

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Just for a moment there -- he was curious about what song you would choose.

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The world, as you've found it.

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Perhaps the last such aesthetic experience you'll have.

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A knife in your boot. You can turn this around.

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Rhythmically, like blades of a machine churning together.

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A face flashes in your mind unbidden -- heavyset, boyish grin, traces of the underworld clinging to him.

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Maybe he bottomed his way to the bottom.

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A phantom hand across the precipice, awaiting a return grip.

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Innocent use of past tense, but still, you don't care for it.

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A hollow centre, expanding with every passing hour.

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A phantom hand across the precipice, awaiting a return grip.

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Her fantasy, crushed under your heel.

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It would be the most interesting thing that will ever happen to her.

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It still looks cool. It would look even cooler in your room, if you've changed your mind.

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Yet another poster that would look awesome on the wall above your bed.

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Alright, hear this out: how about this poster for the wall next to your bed?

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The soft pink hue, the artfully arranged petals... 'Condolences for my Actions' drips with tasteful remorse.

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Or even making them real.

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A psychic invasion.

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No regular crime scene, not just motive and victim -- an echo of fairytale, tracings of black magic. Everything glows in the dark.

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You've found the source of the song, a haunting in a box.

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Thus, a terrible synthesis is born.

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Part of the charm of the mass market paperback. A proper copyedit would've sucked all the juice out.

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Equivalency, Heracles, Vantalangicon, Annihilation, Singularity, Nanoscale, Hyperdrive...

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Higher quality materials don't equate to better editorial content -- it just pushes up the base cost per unit.

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A prisoner of his own desire.

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A fellow supplicant at Her altar.

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Still an act, but neither of you have the script.

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But for once it sounds like a prayer.

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Fish leaping out of a tank in terror as the powdered remains of their fellows are shaken inside.

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The Manus Fati with its finger on pause, just for you.

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Words that echo of marble, drums, and banners.

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You know the feeling, and how to put it into words for him.

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Of course. Religion is a drug for the masses -- it's code.