| A Yurble stole my cinnamon roll! |
Circulation: 193,831,355 |
Issue: 717 | 29th day of Sleeping, Y18 |
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Dinner with the Scarlets: Morning Matters
by june_scarlet
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Great stories!
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 Heavy Metal
A Mote. A particle, or speck of dust. A tiny, inconsequential amount of something, usually pictured floating off to nowhere. A little bit of somethingness to punctuate the nothingness. This might be what always made me uneasy, when I thought of motes - that emphasis of space. At least, I think it was; before that day, when I started thinking something else.
by placebo_533 |
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 He'd Have To Wait
The foliage was springy underpaw as Lopez stepped through the jungle, a camera strung around his neck. After a pawstep, the leaves would jump right back up to where they had been a second before. As the Kougra walked on, the sun grew fainter and fainter, the surroundings growing dark. Bright green plants changed into dark bushes as he walked on.
by jrayeb3 |
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