EPTHigh Literature is about language, humanity, purple-green colored clouds, girls, poetry, joy, third century robots, love, evil tongues that give eternal pleasure, dead butterflies, marshmallow caves, swimming on velvet blankets, jumping on a lake, and everything that tickles the intellect, makes the heart feel sublime emotions, and opens your mind about life, truth, the universe, and all things bright and wonderful. It is my way of contributing my talent and my heart to TL. Enjoy!
Sorry guys if, I've been away far too long. I just finished reading your PMs and messages, and still there are maybe 50 more to read. You really warm my heart with your support and encouragement guys. Anyway, I have just concluded two national writing workshops. It took my mind off of the "The Sun Is Wet Under the River" series (sorry about that also, but I am resuming it soon), but fret not, I have written a sketch side project during the workshops (something that I encourage young and aspiring writers to do as well: always have a side writing project besides the big ones that you are working on), and I will share it with you here. It's an action thriller dystopiaesque story, and I hope you enjoy it. So cheers!
Part 1
ApocalypZe!
Planet Bx: Seriptides
I know who I want to take me home but there is no way to retaliate what has been done last night. There are places, places, places, and things too, that only something of his intellectual pedigree can fathom. Nonetheless, it is all available here.
He was not writing a request, or filling out a form for the fellows of the grand workshop to review. It is a quiet day afterall. The sad clouds fly past merrily across the sun. They are only merry as soon as they reach two inches close to the sun, that is if you are watching from the Northern Hemisphere in summer between 10:00 to 11:00 am. It has to be precisely at that point to witness the transformation. Some clouds even get trapped in trees.
No. It was nothing like that at all.
All the wait has come to a ring at the door. Bummer. The electricity is out. She has once again forgotten to pay the bills. So instead, we kicked the dog to alarm the people inside that we have arrived.
Let me take you down?
Are you going?
Strawberries please. Nothing. No thing. It's all a misunderstanding.
She sits down. There are no lights so they use a thousand candles to sufficiently light the room and perform the activity.
Open wide. She opens wide.
Wider. Ok. Is this the one, said them pointing the menacing looking forceps on the tooth just behind the molars. No. This one. No. This one. Maybe. What about this one?
Finally.
After identifying the impacted tooth, they proceed with the important task. Dr. Givens inject 25cc of anesthetics to the main artery. He gives it a tap to make sure.
Dr. Ibramovaskaia, a leading expert in agriculture and stress management applies topical ointment to the surface.
We are ready. Dr. Zeuss finally wears the gloves. Others look on curiously. Some are baffled. A few are confused.
One of them try to ejaculate a protestation, but it is too late.
Are you sure. Nod. He is sure.
The team open the legs to get a better look at the impacted rectal teeth. Without much ado, they remove it. There was no way to tell if this is where it all began, but she suddenly registers some crazy vitals. Could it be the drugs? Could it be the weather? The airconditioning?
Only her twin knows. I wish you were here. It's a gargantuan in the sand, resembling a backlit canopy, with holes in a letter. He is happy.
Children of Mens
Two hundred years into the war, THE WAR, and the warriors are weary. It has grown into a full-fledged war. It is calm and dry, It holds you like a heaven, and you lie. Unvariably lovely there, smaller and clearer as the years go by. Only that it doesn't. The body count is massive. Epic. Biblical.
Rumors of a new champion is spreading fast. Could it be him to end all this.
There are stories about his leaving his remote little to be the messiah.
So long, my honey, so long, he said unto thee, his lover. Too bad you had to drift away
'Cause I could use some company. Right here on this road, on this road I'm on today. I am so wet, yet only my handkerchief to spare. And of course, that dildo you bought me for my birthday. It is not bad at all. In fact it is a good day.
They say he is one of the Children of Mens - that: because of its legendary status, all carved out of the whispers and the stories of the old, once fought against the Mighty Giants of Antatilis.
This is a different war, I don't know why.
Having been born exactly on the same period as their mothers are having their monthly period, they are immune to blood or gore. The go where others have never gone before.
Soon enough, he was thinking of him. What kind of sword do I use to defeat such a strong, persistent, and endless plague. Then it hits him.
He laughs. After perfecting his strategy, he is finally at the epicenter of action. Two thousand of the undead around him, yet he barely makes an effort, more dancing than fighting, he swings and sways, gliding, fleeting in the air, heads roll, arms are cut off, he sings "Three Little Birds" as he goes on his rampage. He winks. More arrive.
In a second, twenty die. In another half second, a hundred more. And then it drops. A metallic bird from the sky. The prophet of doom. The object of his wink a few minutes earlier. A super-duper-mega nuclear missile. He makes his final leap, a leap of victory.
Finally. It is over.
It drops. Explosion. Everything is killed. All the fifty million of his enemy surrounding him? Killed. Everything is killed, including him, Ozaka, and the last of the Children of Mens is no more. Everything is killed - everything, except the remaining 99.99232% of the enemy which could be found plaguing all the other parts of the world. It is at best a molar victory.
The last of the Children of Mens is no more.
(...to be continued...)
