Stories in which people get their just deserts are poison, stories of disproportionate punishment are autobio- or pornography, & stories of undeserved reward will comfort people you dislike. As such, ambitious authors must avoid acknowledging any mechanism of consequences at all.
Hidden by a viny trellis, breathing harder as the processional boys hoot louder & get night-blinded by their torches, squinting down to stamp the cortaderia flat enough it won't catch the meters of veil as they describe spiral paths in toward the mound where the Brides'll be lit.
"You should have gotten him a card this year."
"Haha, yeah, 'Cher papa, thanks for being dead.'"
Good hygiene is listening to songs invoking Satan & songs rebuking Satan in matched pairs.
It's been years & years since anyone's created art specifically dedicated to how great my eyes are, but as a paragon of doggedness I continue to look at people on an almost daily basis.
I'm sorry I said "permanent 11-year-old" rather than "stultified nostalgist". That was spiteful at the wrong angle.
It's weird how Subterranean is a small press that publishes most of Caitlín R. Kiernan's new work, but also $100 leather-bound reprints of Terry Brooks novels for the permanent 11-year-old market. And they both sell out! Like, those are both sturdy struts of their business.
Oh, sorry, I'm mainly attracted to other women with poor-kid teeth. Oh, sorry, I'm mainly attracted to other women with permanent embroidering injuries. Oh, sorry, I'm mainly attracted to other women with strapping calves from toe-walking. Oh, sorry, I'm mainly attracted to other
"Mine looks 110, has the shriveled wings of a desiccated osprey, & carries a horsehide scourge specifically."
When someone compliments my clothes I tell them which clearance rack, when someone compliments my hair I tell them I finished the cut with a pocketknife.
This is also why it's adorable when we gnaw the bars of our cage.
You think, I know, that chewing a long stalk of grass makes you look appealingly relaxed & cocky because it's reminiscent of a shirking farmboy, but no — you and the farmboy both have gained your air of insouciance from your increased resemblance to a goat.
Should I hang this (print of a) painting of a water-rotted yet ambulatory raccoon corpse right over the bed, or should it be directly across the room so we can see it better?