Cosmik Wolfpack is a playground and laboratory for flash-formed poetry and nanofiction written by The Debtor, a white cisgender male and citizen of the United States.
If you have something to say to the author, send it to cosmikwolfpack at gmail dot com.
Long ago, a gangly teen-age boy
Cherished by the dragon
The forest elves, perfectly melded
With the sparkling beast and its power
The dragon already labored to capture
Three wonderful grandchildren
One thing he inherited was a wooden souvenir
One thing he inherited was the wonderful tin TV tray
Next to a chair
The elves sealed the jagged shards of joy
In the shadow of everyone familiar
Coming from a military background, the 27 year old ordinary family man that enjoys the cheaper wine never can tell what mischief seventeen different authors whose capabilities he does not understand may cause. Traveling comes naturally to the man. Now befriended by a unicorn, could the traveler, a twenty-first-century man, become any more intractable?
Unicorns watched the man practice his marvelous weakness. He was left alone, equipped with unreal color.
Centaurs, trolls, and animal-headed travelers live in Illinois. If we begin with the premise that there is a very familiar malevolent future, the truth of foreign scientific government from this same dimension is directly involved in an invasion by extraordinary companions and elves.
The 27 year old ordinary family man thought for a long moment. His supernatural guardian has warned him that the beautiful unicorn has been a practicing attorney, an adjunct professor with the University of Phoenix, and is willing to share uniquely realistic inspirations, observations, lectures, and research collected over forty years.
After seven years of imprisonment in a land where the undead are easy to please, a suspicious, bitter man is plagued by an ancient family. A raucous poltergeist forced him to seek every physical, emotional, mental and spiritual condition a person could suffer. His three rules of engagement for revenge:
The true killer has another best friend, Garry Lennox, son of a deceased technology mogul and a former friend of the young and beautiful fan of many types of literature. They are now pitted against each other in a dangerous game of complicated culpability. Did you ever think about where all those shapely clients will be revealed?
you can hear the exact moment when they stop caring about the history of firearms. people genuinely like missing internal parts, giving them license to merrily tinker with their emotions or situations via Skype and iMessage.
a decent man who by an accident of birth has found himself washed in blue light reminiscent of romantic tropes is fully embodying the overdriven sonics you might expect from people turning into bats. while his music remains a strong female presence that radiates beauty from the inside out, the audacity that fueled his hidden treasures and truths has seemed absolutely lost for much of the decade. that brief virality didn’t pan out.
in an effort to avoid a public act of violence, the girls and women enhance their character, self-image, and vision by developing an instantly stale running joke that honors the joy of our souls and unifies us.
It is with great relief to all in the cubist roadmap that the challenge to choose a new pulverizing crowd has been completed, even if the result of the challenge was a fantastical audience of dreamed roustabouts. Very few folks know of this slow trek to deep incidents with friends.
A gleefully retired school psychologist emerges as enticing arcane echoes after the death of who he really is. Numerous victims of prayerful songs created the violent obsession of residence at the ass-end of a galaxy, far away from ghosts who ask things of the president.
Take your medicine and get some of that good oval-shaped jewelry. Young idiots who act like abandoned dogs are jumping in the public showers; law enforcement professionals are planning another trip to the old moonlight. You cannot prep for a lucid moment by staying in the pleasure you've earned.
I'm pleased to have learned some secret stuff, though. Apparently, real scholars with a new team of wild authority figures have gathered in the holiday palace. Their goal is to be raised up above the highest ranked budget master. But they cannot succeed if you are not medicated and if you have not purchased enough oval-shaped jewelry from these fucking teenage swindlers.
I got singled out for being bleached and benign yesterday. Last week, my former employer sacrificed himself on the altar of deflated forecasts, and I took it as a clear sign of my own misfortune. I have to say that I am definitely surprised by the speed and efficiency of my dissembling.
I remember the day my superiors sat us down, me and my caste, so an outside consultant could read to us from the book of the castrated prophet. The combined effect of the time's content and the air conditioning left me queasy. I declined the complimentary luncheon and took myself outside. The humidity of the asphalt heat soothed me. I remember the thistledown floating then, just as it is now.