LSama

... and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. Shooting and shouting, fucking and fighting. It was the only thing he'd ever known, the only life he'd ever lived. It screamed in his veins, better than any drug you could shoot up. He wasn't high, he was grounded, feet to the floor and usually moving far to fast to keep up with. It wasn't that he was out of control i- it was that he had too much of it. People thought he was insane. He wasn't. He wasn't losing his mind one iota - he was stapling it to the sides of his skull, planting it deep in that ca

...except the love, the love I have for you. She kept telling herself that the world wasn't falling apart. That it wasn't going to end. That it wasn't going to come crashing down around her. She had reminders - people, places, memories and thoughts, proof that everything was going to be alright, it was going to be fine. Except him. She had all these faces, all of these pictures, all of these little things - his clothes, his jewelery. His necklace and the cold metal of it around her neck, everything to tell her that tomorrow would come whether she liked it or not. Except him. And it all seemed so easy for the rest of the world. Those that

...it's only ever violence that's in my touch. It is amazing, the damage one can do with their bare hands. Bear hands. His hands were huge - they were the sprawl of plates, the spread of spider's legs. They went on forever. The teeth, the tentacles, it's never what they stared at. It was his hands that they watched, that they wondered about. What could he do with those hands?   It was the wrong question to ask.   No, the question wasn't what could he do with those hands, but what couldn't he do with them. He could wield a blade - nothing said I love you like the swing of an axe to a man's head. He could throw a gro

Untitled Sometimes, when no one was looking, she went onto her roof and stared at the stars. She liked to tell herself that it was a throwback, some instinctual reaction to all that had happened. She liked to tell herself that maybe Jane had rubbed off on her a little too much. She liked to tell herself she'd stop. She liked to tell herself she'd never started. That it was all just a daydream, a figment of her imagination - that she never did it at all, never set foot one on the roof of her apartment building...but that would've been a lie. Darcy wasn't much for lying, either. Better to shock them with the truth if you could. More satisfy

They didn't stand a chance. They didn't have a hope, a dream, a pot to piss in between them. They'd made a mistake. There were some things you just didn't do - some words you didn't utter in the company of men that weren't men, but the lurking madness beneath this hell hole they called a city. They'd made a mistake, you see - they'd made the wrong eyes in the wrong direction, looked at her in a way he didn't care for. Then he came to them, chomping at a bit between teeth that were like saw blades, spinning 'round and 'round in a circle without end. They'd touched his woman, his property. As he ripped another to small pieces, he reminded

The camera panned back. There was Tony Stark, sitting on a sofa, across from Oprah Winfrey. He'd done this show a few times and even though he sometimes gets the urge to strangle the woman, today is not that day. "So, let's talk about The Girlfriend," she said, making sure the man can hear the Importance of the last Two Words. The Girlfriend. Tony's lips started to twitch, in that way of his: it indicates that the tiny smile he's wearing is only there because he's valiantly trying to hold off a bigger grin. He's not doing great at it, but he could be doing worse. He'd been expecting this question, in all fairness, and the fact that she'd on

"What's a magnus opus?" "Magnum opus," the man corrected with a chuckle, cigarette dangling from thin lips. "It's Latin for 'great work' - or in some cases 'the great work', in reference to a musician or artist. A masterpiece, in other words." "Whatever, Opus. Why don't you play no more?" If he never had to answer this question again in his life, it would still be too many times. "Several years ago, I was mugged. The attacker dislocated my right shoulder, broke my right arm, and cut my face with his knife," he said, a calloused fingertip rising to stroke the scar that ran horizontal across the bridge of his nose, across the lid of his whi