How will Eli handle his mother’s friends? He is getting ready for personal transformation inspired by seductive women.
His motivation for craving a corrupt mystical fiasco? A gigantic fire-breathing sorcerer who must be controlled.
Having a wicked abyss of character, Eli is blighted by hostility and aluminum alloys. Following Cornish custom, he did remarkable things with a Chinese metallurgist.
German parents with a burning desire for success sacrifice authenticity.
The child had the desire to make fun and beautiful toys.
This is the goal of my son, to tirelessly entertain and dress in the right disguise. I watched my own children looking for the gun.
The wife trusts the American president, as the angels venture out for a boat ride to Russia. Ultimately, her husband plans to struggle with strangers who appear.
The saga begins with the Federal Bureau of Investigation during difficult times in South Carolina throughout the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s.
Bootsie acquired a master’s in nursing at the University. When he reappears later in a boat, a spy floats to the surface.
The amateur is at liberty to think as deeply and truly as he can in the privacy of his motel room. He is not a tourist or a spy.
He became serious about an Amish elder he considers charismatic. They spent ten years living on a strange farm, without children or the Bible.
Since they are serious about faith, other amateurs risk a much friendlier obligation. It can be exhilarating.
Chuck met the kind of hot mature women who end up alone at a sleazy motel. Chuck is starting to become fully orgasmic. Things go smoothly.
Chuck is falling in love with his lover again. They make love more than once. Chuck will triumph.
Chuck's parents are having sex with the wanderer, totally rattled by the art of hedonistic thrashing.
As the Supreme Court prepares to move around because of temporary hubris, a sinister blob brings you a lithium car battery.
Y'all be cutting people off because they stand against the vast majority of Americans in condemning a baby dog.
Research shows that when local ecologists lose access to the most popular gaming platform in the world, we can have cheaper and better woolly mammoth mimics.
This is frog is special. It's nearing the end of its life because democracy has fallen!
One would think a person who is active at dusk and dawn and difficult to see would require no human assistance.
It's so embarrassing how they munch on fish and diminutive sharks.
A Catholic focuses on carnal anxieties. At the age of seven he wanted to become a threat to Belgium. He dealt with his nephew, Morris, who struggles with slaughtering the Vatican’s villainous soldiers.
Let’s hope the skeleton in the high back plush purple velvet fabric chair is ready for a Halloween story.
Growing up on a farm in rural Indiana, the large elf replaces desire with challenges. He was always a fan of seducing a number of individuals that he knew when he was damaging the United States government.
Growing up playing sports, the top investigator decides to survive the murder. He later relocates to Tennessee and faces a major problem — he’s never accepted the computer!
Together, they discover a woman with a proper squirrel puppet. She lives in a cozy village in the middle of the forest, with a sweet little sister and a video game.
At 60 years young, Craig and his best friend never get depressed. Darkness and doom hang over them in a simple cabin.
After earning the loyalty of goblins, they face a forest dwarf named Teddy, an avid basketball and American football fan. When he sees a handsome looking muscular man, he is attracted to him instantly.
A tomboy trying to catch a talking bear learns about the disenfranchised and unwanted old creature. Now, I can affirm my status as a delicately classical husband.
Who killed Dr. Watcher? Was it Certainly the cat? Or Probably the cocker spaniel?
Was it Definitely the green iguana? Doubtfully the ancient goat?
Who killed Dr. Watcher? Perhaps it was Shirley Most-Absolutely the thrice-tried but never convicted murderer who lives on the cul-de-sac adjacent to his grand estate?
The two olives in my lemonade like a fuzzy room where they get stinky with the exiled whoremonger. A car full of nails and a bowtie balloon make a lot of noise in the alley. Also, the crabby brats dancing on the tarp.
There's nothing wrong with our fathers who are learning how to make their own noises with their bum beaks. It makes the gray corn guy sleepy.
The exiled whoremonger has escaped! The tarp has been abandoned but there are three empty shoes laying there. And the nails are also on the ground and that's what ultimately stops the whoremonger. While the gray corn guy dreams about drowning olives, our fathers drag that whoremonger back to the trailer. His feet leak blood from the cursed asphalt field of nails to the wood porch.
It's a teenage Halloween! That means it’s time for another lunge toward a pattern. The faintest scent of vanilla heralds a really bad local emergency. I can’t help but vibe with big ’80s energy.
Elsewhere, we get more neoclassical piano; it is the best kind of preposterous. No amount of masterful drum programming could make a consistently joyous the tackiest glitz imaginable.
Our faces are soap, our faces are slippery and fragrant things. The rest of our heads are soap grafted onto wooden bodies.
Our faces are wet and losing mass. The exfoliating seeds in our heads, exposed to the air and the sun's voice, fall to the ground.
Our eyes are inside bubbles. The exfoliating seeds dropped from our heads germinate into the distorted world, their cotyledons catching and reflecting the sun's voice back into our melting ears.
You must not drink the liquid of the reservoir this month: it will bring into your corpus an obscure parasite with the ability to transform the voice into a forgotten music.
Your cries for help as you vainly try to tread water will sound to the birds like mating calls. One will strike you in the head. The sucking hole left behind will let out the memory smoke, instant death for any insect passing through.
When they fall to the water, the surface ripples and shatters the star light, the last thing you see as you sink to the submerged village below. The fish, taking their unexpected feast, will find their minds filled with terrifying new colors and sounds.
I have wasted most of my life harvesting trouble in the dark boulevards of my home town — a place of stubborn sex workers with the grit and the nerve to push around cops. My legs are streaked with scars, the traces of the mites I encounter on my nightly sojourns. I love to smack trash can lids with table legs or big leg bones from dead guys. I make such a racket and the sex workers smack me around, which I actually like. I look into oily puddles and try to make sense of my distorted face.
A false image of a cloaked herbalist in an overgrown coppice. Hairy moss sends tendrils to the breaking moon light.
Falling crystalline voice sifts through dessicated wafers, breaking into brittle harmonies before reaching the roots.
Without optical stimuli, the herbalist's various companions take heed of the sky-song to re-dream their mistress's touch.
Fungus grip brings memory to an unplanned deconstruction. Remember the name of your body or command the air to oppose the frost. Body scales lock together for a tough shell but also with fabulous performance: capturing and reshaping the light, delivering it back to dazzled observers.
To simply wear this fine and luminous skin of chitin is a nearly undescribable ecstasy. To feel the bodies of one's enemies breaking upon it like rotting vegetables, their accumulating vital liquids hushing the light, is to be infiltrated by a despair mycelial in its sophistication.
I think that the life of the roots pressed thick in the dancing soil is a real life.
No less real than the life on the Earth skin among the star's heat and mingled pheremones.
As real as the silent speaking in all bodies, the mother of these words.
Here's the big bulb in the sock. I think there is a cat under the shed. The rubber from the round instrument has begun to melt and I felt it drip onto my head's bald top.
Float! Speak while you're floating, to remember yourself. If you can, listen to the flying things, feel the light divorced from the stars, and never forget the touch of cool wet rubber.
Vermicultural hymns echo through the artificial canyons of the cemetery for hot guys. Big stud mourners weep in the shadows of concrete tree proxies.
Slapping naked thighs with wet hands, the guys in the office fear no bruises!
Bald bird cream dripping from the rafters makes the place seem like a motel where a surgeon goes to decieve himself.
The clay abbot is eating with the help of fishermen's offspring who have been trained to gently operate his jaws and massage his throat to allow for the efficient passage of fish flesh and pasted herbs to the steaming vat of his belly. The food is good enough for the abbot but the wine, sullied by beetle larvae and their excrement, will be put out for the stable folk.
Boiled in tin pots, the abbot's drink shall instead be the spinal fluid of the fishermen themselves, harvested by the abbot's mistresses in their black gauze hoods and capes. By the time of the feast, these gorgeous skanks have retired to their richly appointed bedchambers to enter a catatonic state, dreaming of the fish who now swim free of fear.
Using the ash of burned citrus peels, we create a thick slurry, the main ingredient in our day-masks. Once my slurry is mixed with pigment and urine, I form it into a vaguely porcine visage. Peter presses a fat thumb into its forehead, and places it into his cob kiln. I do the same for him; I still consider his elegant vespid creation to be the finest mask I've seen.
Down below the wanking hut and the grease pit, Peter and I, the pig and the wasp, fetch the bookbinder's laundry. We hide brass letters in her pockets, letters she will arrange and rearrange to find the words to the incantation.
One day, months or even years hence, she will have finally come to the final configuration. She will print and recite the incantation and we will sleep, our stolen masks melted for ink.
Use the sugar lens to hang a cinema of half-formed heaven over the child's bed. You provide an education in this way, your simple gift. The only one you have to give.
This is a denial of hope and a viable path to an economy agreeable to all. It is grand. The child rises to feel the night-light's illumination die, leaving their skin chilled and raw.
The child takes their tattered toy ungulate to the dresser and palms the sugar lens. They sneak out the window and climb the ivy-laden trellis up to the roof. Holding the lens to their eye, they dissolve in the starlight.
Crisply gentle utopians form cogent theories of dignity. Honored to perform in the ceremony of romance, they hold the golden antidote in their belt flasks. After an interference of sophistication and elegance, these homely folks evacuate their vibration bladders and soon grow drowsy.
Dozens of comfortable teletherapy experts feel the fingers of their filthy clients pressing into their pillowy cheeks, bringing them to the verge of physical arousal. Hidden tablets of lust suppressors in their gums, tongued from their moist enclosures, prove quite effective when chewed.
Nattily attired wrestling managers shred soy wafers while they use telekinesis to sort glassy cubes into multiple receptacles. Their thoughts are chaste and do not drift to lurid visions of bog standard fucking and frenzied oral.
Father moves his injured body from the upturned wagon to the video barn. A horse in woven trousers listens to a collection of alt-rock hits on compact disc, an obsolete medium which nevertheless acquits itself admirably. The horse is suitably entertained, flashing a dog-eat-dog sly smile at father as he lumbers to the legless sofa in the sunken leisure pit and reclines, groaning.
The mute offspring arrive next, satchels of ground glass and spices at their hips. Then oldest of the offspring mists father's flesh with a dilute vinegar solution and the rest dust him with the glass and spices, each reciting their stanza of the Dreamwords. As father's flesh absorbs their gifts, his friend the horse loses himself in a moment of deep contemplation over the frankly nonsensical lyrical content of the song he is listening to.
The wan sun provides inadequate illumination. The arms of two people on the concrete levee extend until the hands at their ends meet. These, in turn, enmesh and squeeze. The people intently hold each other's gaze, whispering secrets.
The machinery cools in the rust meadow below as the dead demon's body rolls down a steep incline, coming to a rest at a pile of emptied food receptacles. Somewhere, a lost telephone warbles a plea for attention, unanswered.
The observer leans out of the greased funnel as best they can, the exertion forcing out an involuntary spurt of saliva which pools on the ground, inviting a crust of ash and other powders. Until the inverted flesh producer arrives, this is as close as they can come, failing to read distant lips, inventing secrets no one can share.
I was told to imagine my penis as an advanced space-faring vessel, drifting through the witless void. You cannot guide someone into adulthood: you can only push someone too hard into the burden of sarcasm. This person will become mineral: Earthborn mystery.
Buffeted by solar radiation and unseen arrows, my great dick ship and its forlorn crew of two approached a dreadful planet. Guido the desk armorer played vanished school anthems. Bunny the damp broom lacked the macho instinct needed to crank penis hard.
I was instructed to imagine myself — the torso and limbs hanging from the posterior of the phallus — as the ornery artificial intelligence controlling the fleshy vehicle. Possessing infinite authority and malicious stupidity, I doom my penis to a quick and brutal destruction.
Nicely skipping on hot soles the basket face man gives the flavor. Stone ball rattles in the hollow hat import a sweetly fermented sense of domesticity to the interior of the dwelling. The bread he ate fuels his toe slapping frolic.
The expensive flowers on his britches, the brown striped ribbons around his wrists, and the glittery cloud of ornamental vapors about his comely head bring us a gladness unmatched.
To be with him, to eat of his peas and lie with his pregnant sows, is to press one's chafed navel against the flesh of an imagined fruit, like an emoji invented by a child, badly interpreted by a sophisticated artificial intelligence.
She's in her own home and surrounded with her own freshly laundered towels. She drizzles them with her signature Italian dressing, looking forward to seeing the racially diverse race drivers in their gaily colored vehicles. She's sitting on her sunglasses, unfortunately.
The race administrator leaves his villa, walking until he's running, running until he's vomiting cubed lettuce and soy hash on the charred carpet of the former hotel's lobby.
In foil packets, the lumpy poultry steams in the bathroom. Our heroine will eat it with naked fingers on her balcony, waiting for the race that never begins...