you took everything. destroyed my planet, my universe, my life. i'll never hear my lover's laugh, my baby's cry. and i was supposed to take it ? you won't win. get this, crukker:
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zorah quinn. punisher.
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in the end, you get what you deserve.
When the craft landed on the beach, it violated several local edicts and spoiling a lot of tourists' afternoons.
Zorah found herself wondering where Quinn was, what he was doing. She felt a sudden urge to hold his hand.
(The other day I remembered the Axis. If only you knew what I saw! I can't put it into words, and so I will paint it every day in everything for the rest of my life.)
Later, she would go to the sea again, and think of that raw scar of arrival. Her body had started to close in — not exactly shut down, not even give up... it was just that there was a small delay. Sometimes the body just couldn't process the idea. She was slow. Why rush?
Resting the brush on the edge of the easel, Zorah turned to her mixing station. She crushed up some flowers, added the binder and solvents, tested it on a tissue.
She wanted a drink badly. Where was everyone when you needed them?
Resting the brush on the edge of the easel, Zorah turned to her mixing station. She crushed up some flowers, added the binder and solvents, tested it on a tissue.
She wanted a drink badly. Where was everyone when you needed them?
Frayed, faded days of late-summer. The suns hung lazily, uninterested in coming or going. Zorah was painting again.
She was thinking about flower cross-pollination. A little of me, a little of you. The tip of her brush rested in her mouth. She decided she would make more paint.
Frayed, faded days of late-summer. The suns hung lazily, uninterested in coming or going. Zorah was painting again.
She was thinking about flower cross-pollination. A little of me, a little of you. The tip of her brush rested in her mouth. She decided she would make more paint.