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In some distant parts of the world, EMTERR is euphemistically called 'the Kindly Ones'. Using their true name directly is reserved for curses and insults.

An image, its negative, the image again.

The child found mutilated, stuffed into the plumbing of a hot tub.

In his mind's eye, a gigantic Lolita Calista-faced train hurtles toward him.

A woman you will never see gets you off.

The outline of a woman. More specifically, her left thigh.

Is that... a hoof?

Trace the expanse.

Spoken with awe and reverence.

Does he mean Ultra Violeta... you could hardly describe her as 'mountainous'... maybe in talent terms...

A crumpled paper airplane of a man.

None of these words make any sense to you, either singly or -- even less -- in combination.

Woops. Time for an intriguing exit!

Neither of you know much about socks. But unlike him, you can improvise.

An absurd reality demands an absurd performance to match.

Scaly reliefs and cracked plates, like some diseased armour.

The way he intones the word 'Mother' suggests a primitive monotheist before an image of his graven god.

That's a lot of scepticism around 'reported' and 'disappeared'.

More intimate than a static image -- you create a new picture of her in your mind every day.

A decent imitation of Cengiz Balik's style of free verse, but they could have gone harder with the adverbs.

It's like you're entering the putrid lands of some dark fantasy.

She was his psychopomp. She carried him away from this world.

A lullaby of resignation.

It could be perfect. Blissfully unaware of your pulse as it slows, relieved, descending to its final crawl. A shrug as you depart the stage.

The sigil means 'repetition' -- it's on a lot of shop doorways and shrines. She could be using it to mark the equipment, a note to self.

Probably some kind of curse. She's cursing you.

A snorkel to messier, louder, brighter worlds. Maybe you'd have never left Mircea without them.

Wandering from one peccadillo to another like an inverted travelling circus; the world is their clown.

The angels stop their shimmering and turn to watch this one perfect throw.

It was fucking magical!

Inevitable yet strangely crushing.

The kind of song that you can only write if you know how to hope for things.

You danced with a lover, in the nascent stages. Lingering moments, a meeting of flesh that only you could feel. Brief enough to deny, long enough to know.

Born into decay, they will always be drawn to it.

Wagging its tail.

The sight reminds you of a set of stairs descending into the dark of the basement.

Sharing one last breath.

You had this image in your head: standing in the downpour, sharing one last breath with your friend, drowning in ash and acid rain. It was supposed to be romantic... exit music for a spy...

Write a poem from the heart.

Hold on, are you really going to submit this carbon-copy? There's neither blood nor truth on this page.

The colour reminds you of pomegranate.

There may yet be some forgiveness out there.

The word 'bitch' repeats in your mind.

Write an apology to Oskar Metamoto.

What's coming will be ugly. You deserve something beautiful, here at the end of all things.

Criminally underappreciated. Retrospect will vindicate her.

Each Portofiran youth a potential cultural assassin-in-waiting.

714 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 7 of 15