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Roll CreditsMore Sandman shortfic; Corinthian-centric. Enjoy.
He is nineteen years old and blinded, and in his dreams, he clutches a rifle to his chest like it will be taken away from him. There are scars under his eyelids like the maps of trenches, like lacework under his tongue. When he does wake, the pain will be gone, and he will consider himself cured.
they don't meet often, he and she. Much later, and they pretend not to notice. Her eyes are not her brother's. Her eyes are wet and young and living and there, and most importantly, she will not look at him. They glitter and they track, but they patently ignore him, so he can watch
After the FactAfter the Fact
"Any blood left?" Pocketing the offending objects-- pale hazel, delicately veined, and lidlessly surprised-- and straightening his skewed glasses in the mirror, ever the dandy.
"Not that I can see." Gert looked back at him, sour and doubtful, gone pale underneath a natural tan.
It's not fear that made Jernigan accept this sudden change of plans, from gormless bohemian to grudging accomplice to murder most foul. He's never had a trusty assistant, one to lug bodies around for him. It's a curious experience, and a first. Might as well make the best of it.
He grabbed Gert by the necktie, and pulled him in. Slipping the sus
He'd wanted nothing more than sail, before he'd even laid eyes on the sea. Perhaps he was a romantic then, listening to stories and songs instead of the bitter old men in the corner pub, scarred and sunbeaten to the colour of old wood. Songs call the seas mistress, and laud her charms in six verses or less; old sailors swear and spit and tell young sailors to stay out of it. Anthony loves the sea, and the sky, and the whole world, all in burning earnest.
He thought he loved her, too. But he cannot go to sea as a wanted man, a man with bride and child to think of (and it's only a little thing, not even kicking, which bring
One: StolenOne-shot Sandman fic; Corinthian-centric.
He's always taken a sort of layman's interest in photography. The boy speaks only French, which is good news for him. (Not that he's forgotten it, not since the days of liberty, equality and fraternity, but the rare degree of separation it gives-- charming.) The girl is trés charmant in pictures, but not nearly so in person-- her face manages to seem severe despite being nearly perfectly round, and her drawn-on eyebrows and Clara Bow lipstick (from when Clara Bow could be considered a sex kitten) seem doll-like and artificial. But the boy, he's perfect. Could have ordered him from a catal
Four: Under The MoonOne-shot Sandman fic; Corinthian-centric.
Just-Harry is very tall, and very thin; not bad looking but he looks starved and weatherbeaten first and foremost. Can't be more than 16, but he lacks the round-faced appeal of most kids that age, and tries to look a lot older. Melting snow forms little puddles in the folds of his jacket. He sits in the passenger's seat, knees folded up to his chest, picking at the place in his jeans where asphalt has torn holes.
Blood oozes up from the heels of both palms, and he's curiously meticulous about not getting it anywhere. Better for the upholstery, but curious indee
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`anmari has been spreading her infectious positivity throughout our community for over 6 years. Throughout this time Ana has been at the core of all things devious, passionately developing an eclectic gallery, helping organise devmeets, participating in chat events and also recently completed dedicating her time as a Community Volunteer. We are absolutely delighted to bestow the Deviousness Award for May 2013 to `anmari, congratulations! Read More