September 2008
9 posts
Prologue
The dust was intolerable. It pushed down on your shoulder like wet velvet, coated your tongue and lungs and throat with its fine grit, made breathing nearly impossible and thirst a constant shadow, peering over the shoulder and whispering its dryness into your mind. In the day it hung in wavering red curtains, clogging nostrils and ears, and stinging eyes; it made it’s way into the brain...
“”
– It was a confusion of ideas between him
And one of the lions he was hunting
That had caused Spottsworth to make the obituary column.
He thought the
Lion was dead,
And the lion
Thought it wasn’t.
—- P. G. Wodehouse
Hello...er....
Hi. This looks like a pretty good place to roost for a bit, maybe even build a nest and settle down eventually.
This will be a storage place for any art or snippets of my story, Mirage, until I get everything situated in a rough draft.
Feel free to ask questions, and critique me to pieces. I need it. Just don’t ask me to email you more of the story. What you see here is what you get...