This is the Sandbox Page of Vivax
also when you remind me, remind me that my notes are in the top drawer Crackles
RUDIE'S WRITING GUIDE!
A SECOND LIFE
ALSO WRITE UP A QUIZ CORRESPONDING TO GAFF'S THING
SUCK A PILE OF UNWASHED DICKS TO KEEP THE WORLD "NORMAL"
HEY FINISH SEDNA AND CROSSLINK IT TO THE LIBRARY! WRITE SOME TALES ABOUT THE LIBRARY FOR THE FOUNDATION, WRITE TALES FOR THE FOUNDATION ABOUT THE LIB!
The rambling river (it changes location)
The dancing stone
The stone-pushed river
1) A Kindness
2) The people of fire
3) College application
5) Lab notebook entries
6)Planasthai (Who's who in the Milkyway? A compendium of Stellar Personalities)
INTERVIEWS FOR MAGAZINE WITH PEOPLE'S CHARACTERS
9) Space Chimps
License: CC BY:NC:SA 3.0
The King strode down his royal road on the coldest, most stagnant day in winter stark naked aside from his vestments of office. His crunched the snow between his toes with satisfying relish. He strode proud and tall under the senescent oaks that clutched their leaves, shivering at the whims of the wind.
All was right.
The King walked tall, alone and unafraid, never turning once to see if he was followed. No commoners dared approach him. They went slinking cowardly into the wilderness at the sight of his symbolic noose and dagger. They scurried back into the cover of the tree trunks and snow, terrified at the King's approach.
All was right.
The King left no footprints and followed no trail. The royal road was wherever he placed his feet to the ground and no other place. There could be no conflict here. This was his domain. The enormous burlap sack that covered his head ensured that none mar his face with their glances. The Motorists had lost their fuel. The Equestrians had long lost their mounts. The Pilots no longer navigated. Only the Pedestrians remained.
All was right.
"Your embrace is hideous to my sight and you shall find no lasting warmth," the King spat at a family huddled under the small comfort of a hemlock.
"No human shall truly love its offspring but will be unable to keep from reproducing," the King proclaimed to the mother of a gurgling baby and the father of a wide-eyed girl.
"I decree that you shall hate and fear the shadows that lurk just outside your gaze," The King decreed to a brave human crossing his road.
"You will never understand," the King hissed at a human that bore writing on its skin before removing the offending words.
He slipped the skin into his mouth and chewed noisily. Droplets of blood-soaked spittle dripped down his chest and froze, flaking off in tiny fragments.
All was right.
The King approached the last town on his royal road, the last town anywhere. He found another commoner lingering by a door and tore out its eyes. He popped them between his molars and spat them back out.
"These eyes have read. Disgusting."
The King approached the Monastery and demanded the Abbess. She was alone as was her station in life. The gray concrete of the monastery kept her sickening secretions contained.
"Please brother," She began. Her robes of office were black and white, an endless cloud of words. Her face pleaded, "Please don-"
"Sister. You know the terms of our arrangement," The King pushed her aside and strode inside. His hands still dripping with the vitreous humor of the commoner he pushed aside the door to the inner sanctum.
It was a garden open to the sky; snow drifted in from the overcast sky. The garden had been lush once, testified by the stands of fallen trees, the ruined flowerbeds, the shattered statuary. A tiger lay dead in the corner. All that remained was a single flower, opalescent, blue and bright like the eyes of his sister.
"I tasted literacy and I am here to collect, Sister," The King began to cut the stem of the flower.
"Stop!" the Abbess pleaded as she bled, beating her red fists into his back, "You don't know what you are doing!"
"I know enough," The blossom fell into the snow and the Abbess fell with it, her life bleeding out.
All was not right.
The King made to return to his kingdom but fell at the threshold, fatally wounded as his sister the Abbess was.
"You never understood," the Abbess groaned, "The humans did in spite of you,"
A storm broke and played undertaker to the Abbess and the King.
License: CC BY:NC:SA 3.0
"Give me a red-eye."
The crowd shifted as the counter cleared, pushing him to the front. He'd forgotten why he came in here, where the compulsion to buy coffee came from. The steamy, high-pitched whine of the elaborate espresso device reminded him of his headache. He ordered a flat white, paid with a card.
The barista caught his wrist and gave it a concerned look.
"I hope you recover soon," she said with English, concerned politeness.
His eyes drifted to his wrist, where a hospital band dangled. "Just discharged actually. Bit of head trouble…"
Sam drifted, the headache and lingering aftermath of the concussion pushing his thoughts aside. The barista stared at him with her green eyes, sent him a look of concern and delivered his order. "Thanks," Sam cooed.
Outside on the park bench, nursing his coffee, Sam waited for something, anything to steer his listless mind. What he needed, he decided, was something more to write about, something to force his neurons to make new connections to replace those lost. He'd been working on a novella before the accident. When Sam woke up in Great Ormond, among the beeps and pneumatic gasps of life support machines, he had found a manuscript on his bedside table. In it Wanderer, the eponymous character, journeyed through misty halls looking for a way to his home, a great library. It sounded nothing like him. Or maybe it sounded like a version of him before the accident. It didn't matter, the unsettling closeness was the same.
Another sip of coffee. A logo caught his eye. It was a heavily stylized tree that looked a like a crawling snake set on a green, canvas shopping bag carried by a blond, weedy man in a garish orange shirt. Delilah's Rare and Second-Hand Books, read the cheerful print. A wave of nostalgic, irrational joy crashed over Sam.
"Excuse me?" Sam felt himself compelled to say. "Have we met before?"
The man shot him a confused, appraising look. "No, I don't believe so. If you're a student of mine you'll have to visit me during office hours like everyone else. They're listed on the syllabus."
"I'm not a student." Sam wondered if he looked young, whether he should be complimented or offended. "I'm an author. I wrote 'The Cunning Folk' anthology,"
"Oh really?" The man paused, re-appraised him with another look. "I rather liked that anthology. Especially the way you married Celtic poetic forms with folk mysticism. I particularly enjoyed… what was it… the short story about the wise woman trying to save her daughter that the Romans crucified…"
"That's the ticket!" The weedy man slapped his forehead. "Where are my manners? I'm Dr. Nelson Pennywise, and I already know who you are, Mr. Weatherby,"
"Just call me Sam, please." Sam's brain throbbed a migranous throb. "I think I remember where I know you from, Dr. Nelson. Did you give a talk in Glasgow about the absorption of Celtic ritualism into Catholic practices?" He could feel his face grinning in fan-idolizing giddiness but couldn't feel anything. He knew he wanted to smile, wanted to talk to this Dr. Nelson, strange and familiar, but… something felt strange. A side effect of the migraine, perhaps…
"Why yes I did. What a strange coincidence eh, two admirers meeting like this. Earth gets smaller every day." Dr. Nelson shifted the weight of the bag. "I'm actually about to take my lunch, would you like to join me?"
"I'd like that very much."
"The thing you really start to notice," Delilah said in between puffs on a cigarette, "with the monks of this period, is this knee-jerk reaction to their own nostalgia."
She pointed with her latex-gloved fingers at a section of a manuscript which had the dubious provenance of being a Tallaght Monastary original. "You can see it here… oh I'm sorry Sam, I'm used to showing Nelson these things."
"Oh it's no trouble." Sam tried to be polite, standing well away from the dubiously ancient manuscript, carrying three Bean-Space disposable cups tucked into a 4-way cardboard sleeve. He watched as Delilah made antiques appraisal into some kind of exotic, absurdist performance art, complete with arcane tools and enigmatic gestures. He was sure that if this kept up she'd begin dancing with the thing in a ring of standing stones so as to divine the providence of the book.
"Nah, it's rude of me." More puffing on the cigarette, the books frowning in silent judgement at her smoke. "I'll paraphrase. 'Though they were not afraid of sword, nor storm, nor wild beasts, for death was impermanent and the laws of the land were theirs to mediate, they feared the coming of the one true god.'"
"You can see it with the saints." Dr. Nelson's muffled chuckle came from somewhere in the stacks. "Some of the monks are trying their damndest to canonize Lugh."
Sam had since sat down across from Delilah. He flipped through a pulp noir, Heimes's All Shot Up, the smell of library wafting from each page. He remembered the rush of excitement when he went to a library, being paralyzed by all the things he could know but he didn't feel it. Why did his face look interested in the words he read? Why this book? Why did he want to come with Nelson to Delilah's? More sips of coffee.
"Should I be this close, Delilah?" Sam asked, realizing that he and three coffees were probably not the safest things to keep around an eighth century manuscript.
"Wha?" she said, crumbs cascading out from her abortive attack on a ham sandwich. "No no, it's fine. Thing's a fake. No way any original manuscripts survived the collapse of Tallaghut. The forgers got the sentiments right but didn't think to do much beyond the 'tea-stained' pages trick to age the thing."
She whipped her gloves off with the quick, practiced movements of a surgeon, and tossed them into a wastebasket. Her arms stretched and twisted in a tai chi-like post-appraisal ritual. "What do you two say to grabbing a bite after I let the pensioner in the other room know that yard sales don't stock genuine illuminated manuscripts?"
Sam smiled his hollow smile, knowing his face belied how numb he felt. When Dr. Nelson suggested meeting Delilah a few days back, he'd thought that his heart would explode from the rush of life he felt. Now that he was here, with her, with them, surrounded by books, the only thing he felt was nothing. This was what you wanted, right?
In a room that wasn't a room, where the tiles felt like fresh-cut grass and the air smelled of overripe bananas, Sam waited to hear what he wanted to do today. Soon he'd walk right through that lemony door and tell himself what he wanted. He saw himself approaching, saw his favorite lab coat and his scarred assistant friend. Sam liked to think that the scarred assistant was the part of him that favored direct violent action. Sometimes when Sam wanted something different than Lab Sam did, Scarred Sam would force Sam onto the table. Sam hated going onto the table but sometimes he just couldn't argue with himself.
Today, Sam, we're going to make sure you understand the words
No gain from struggle
Happiness in work
Poverty is desired
Sam's sweaty forehead left a residue on the type writer. Vertigo. Nausea. The lonely futon on the bare floor had been shifted out of the corner of the unfurnished, spartan, studio apartment by his thrashing in the night. A document sat freshly composed on the desk. Sam crushed it into a ball and tossed it in the wastebasket.
"Remind me why we're doing this again?" Sam stage-whispered to a crampon and 'ninja glove' bedecked Delilah who was rapidly ascending the side of the abandoned hydraulic accumulator tower at the end of Brambly-Moore Dock.
Delilah would never get a chance to answer.
"Because, you dozy duffer, we're making a statement for the Movement!" screeched another woman pulling herself onto the roof. "Delilah, I thought you said this bloke was down with the Movement."
"Oh for Christ's sake Tang," Delilah shouted over a gust of ocean wind. "The man's recovering from a trauma! Let him have all the second thoughts he wants!"
Tang, a round-faced Chinese woman in her twenties inspected Sam through her glasses like she'd just caught a silverfish. "Wait. He's that bloke?"
"What bloke?" Sam said nervously, fingering the rope Delilah had pressed into his hands with orders against dropping it. He looked to Delilah, who had returned to climbing. He felt helpless on the inside, knew he looked confused on the outside.
"You! You're the addled bloke that Delilah and Nelson adopted off the streets like a little lost sex kitten."
"Excuse me?" Sam doesn't think that means what she thinks it does
"It's okay Sam," Delilah said from higher up the wall. "Everybody knows you're recovering from an accident."
"I don't want everybody to know I'm recovering from an accident! Jesus, Mary and Tap-dancing Joseph, people are going to treat me like some kind of nutter or something too fragile to bump the wrong way!" Sam could feel his vocal cords tighten in calculated outrage. Sam wants to be seen as normal.
Tang cackled. "You are a nutter. Look where you are boyo! We're climbing up an old tower that hasn't been maintained in years! If D over here had any qualms about your stability she'd have left you back with Nelson."
"What did happen to Nelson?" Sam had realized that the good doctor had simply walked away from them while Tang and Delilah debated what color spray paint to use.
Delilah, all the way up the tower and halfway to revealing that she was, as Sam was beginning to suspect, part squirrel, could not be reached for comment.
"I dunno. The Doc's always been a bit gormless. Sometimes he'll just wander down paths nobody else can see. He'll be gone weeks at a time, royal pain for the students too since the man acts like he hasn't been gone at all." Tang expertly secured the end of the rope to a mostly intact chimney. "Anyway Delilah's all done up there, AIN'T YOU NOW LOVE?"
Delilah made some kind of gesture but between her halo of wind-blown scarves and the dim light of the crescent moon Sam couldn't tell if it was a yea or nay. Tang evidently had no such problems and shoved Sam toward the rope. "Go on up; we're ready."
Sam felt himself climbing, felt his face turn from unease to grim, bloody, determination. He looked out at the moonlight glinting off the oil-black harbor. It occurred to him that he could die doing this thing that he never got a solid reason for doing. Growing up Sam had been terrified of heights, the fall from the second-story roof after a close encounter with a wayward bat had seen to that. Intellectually he knew he should be afraid but the flight response refused to kick in. Why did he want to do this?
At the top of the tower Delilah had already begun. Tiny LEDs had been scattered around the floor, giving the impression that stars had fallen here. She'd pulled out a can of spray-paint and was busily tagging the ceiling of the dilapidated tower with symbols Sam faintly recognized from one of her books. She caught him staring. "It's so others can find a Way, Sam."
He nodded, feigning understanding.
Below them Tang had eagerly begun to scrawl "Fuck Security" on the side of the tower, complete with a "no" circle around a crude drawing of a camera. "Yeah! your Panopticon is full of holes you barmy gits!" was shouted at nobody in particular.
"She's doing it again eh?" came the chipper voice of Dr. Nelson.
"Yeah," Delilah said as if his sudden, unannounced appearance at the top of an old, abandoned, industrial tower was entirely normal. "Let her have her fun."
"How the hell did you get up here!" Sam shouted.
"Did you get the words, Nelson?" Delilah didn't miss a beat.
"Yes," Nelson put his hand on Sam's shoulder and stared into his eyes. Before Sam had a chance to push him away Nelson barked, "There's no gain from struggle!"
The last thing Sam heard was a rebel yell from Tang.
Sam found himself in a medieval house out in Lower Bitchfield, a quaint English nowhere. Delilah was there, Nelson was there. They asked him questions. How did he feel? What did he want? Who was he? And Sam, for the first time in a long time didn't feel his body answer for him. He didn't know how to answer.
Delilah had given him a sad look and hugged him. She said that was sadly normal for people like him. "Nelson is right too often. He could tell from the moment he met you. He never gave that talk in Glasgow, he had to cancel last minute, had a graduate student cover for him. It was a test, Sam."
Tang had done the investigation. Sam had never been admitted to the hospital, nor was it terribly likely that Sam was actually Sam Pennywise since Mr. Pennywise had been dead for several weeks. Sam had never really been at all.
"Basically you're a living chatbot, built to seek out certain logos and phrases," Nelson had said. "To hunt down information on The Movement and forward it to people who would do us harm. It's quite ingenious in a existential horror sort of way. The best kind of spy is a spy who does not know they are a spy."
"If by ingenious you mean terrible," Delilah retorted. "What kind of monsters would make other people into walking, agency-free drones?"
"You know exactly who. But that doesn't matter now." Nelson gave Sam a look. "What matters is what Sam here is going to do now that he's aware again."
"What do I want to do?" Sam queried his mental congress, found it full of rage and existential dread, found it full of vague dispossessed sadness, found the mechanical calls and responses that had been his face to the world. Sam knew. Sam was his own man.
He placed the manilla folder on top of the third garbage bin behind "Anand's Indian Tastebud". There was a light mist in the air, making London into a washed up graphic tee. Sam turned and left, not looking back. Across the street Delilah and Nelson waited in the van. He hopped in the back. They waited.
After about 40 minutes of silent anticipation they had their bite. A clean-cut man in a dour, black suit emerged from a nearby apartment and made a bee-line for the garbage cans. He stuffed the folder in his coat and purposely walked away.
Nelson kicked the engine into gear and drove away, tension rapidly decreasing as the van ambled further and further away from Anand's Indian Tastebud.
"How do you feel, Sam?" Delilah asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.
It felt right. He felt right.
And that was how Sam Pennywise became a double agent.
Establish setting though other media, establish significance through other pieces.
From the lab journal of Dr. Moyo A. Hollis
Date: July 18, 2012
In spite of recent develops in the fields of biotechnology there has been surprisingly little investigation into the interplay between sorcery and biological systems. It is the opinion of this lab and myself in particular that by examining the interplay between magic and biological systems we could stand to learn a great deal. If we can determine the mechanism of action for spells, rituals and incantations we could learn of novel therapeutic targets for the treatment of cancer, disease and more about cell cycle regulation.
The goal of this initial investigation is to identify tissue types that are targeted by spells. This will hopefully yield enough data to generate multiple hypotheses and/or avenues of future studies.
Initial hypothesis regarding the mechanism of action of different spells are difficult to formulate given the paucity of data and the potential for arcane/mundane cross contamination. The following experiments will attempt to address these concerns using an in vivo model. Sprague-Dawley rat populations (5) will be exposed to one of the spells listed below. These spells have been well tested in the magical community. For the sake of simplicity, spells that cause instant death have been chosen for this initial investigation. Healing spells, long-term curses, protective wards, metamorphosing rituals and other magics implicate too many variables.
Instant Painless Death: (Gentle Violence Initiative, May 1989)
Notes: Well established as a cause of death, approved for capital punishment
Hopeless bee dies alone/ honey golden and eaten/ a discarded life: (unknown author, circa 1950)
Notes: Reputed to cause death, (remember to thank Dr. Takenada for donating this spell)
Application of force along a vector #8-32-90: (Newtonian Magi, 2008)
Notes: Reported to be sub-lethal (control)
Vital Disruption: (Biomancers of Boston 2011)
Notes: Well established as a cause of death. Knowledge and use are regulated by the FOA.
No Spell: (Control Population)
Spells will be cast by myself and by Sabre DeSousa, the resident laboratory magician. A room has been prepared for this purpose. The room has been coated with one layer varnish composed of crushed secretions of the Kerria lacca species mixed with 1 part per million powdered platinum. Copper wire (1mm2 diameter) was inlaid in the floor of the room in a standard obtrusion circle while a non-cross incantation was whistled in Silbo. In addition the ægishjálmr was applied to the surface on the room using Sun Yellow Lisatm brand spray-paint(cat# 890-1). These protocols have been adopted to minimize magical contamination. Contamination will be for tested using the clouded crystal technique. This arraignment is subject to revision and optimization.
Rats will be raised according to IRB approved parameters.
Before exposure each rat will be placed under anesthesia (see rat anesthetization protocol p. 15-18 Lab Protocol Manual) as per IRB regulations. Should any rats survive they will be euthanized (see p. 45-46, IRB rat euthanasia protocol, Lab Protocol Manual). After euthanization the rat cadavers will undergo necropsies to determine cause of death. The following organs will be extracted and flash frozen in liquid nitrogen in a cryostat.
The tissues will then be cut into "thin sections" using a microtome (see tissue section protocol p.123-130 Lab Protocol Manual) and mounted onto microscopy slides (see mounting procedure p. 201-203 Lab Protocol Manual). Cell mounts will undergo immunoflourescent staining for actin, laminin, ATP synthase and known surface markers (the surface markers will be stained before cell permeabilization). Obviously each fluorescent marker will use a unique fluorophore with as limited cross-spectra emission as possible (see immunoflourescent staining protocol p8-13 Lab Procedure Manual). The sections will then be examined by confocal microscopy (digital analysis will also be conducted to clear images and compensate for photo bleaching). Tissue sections will also be stained using H&E for cell typing.
Instant Painless Death: Rats exposed to this spell demonstrate widespread apoptosis within brain and heart tissue. In particular the cerebellums of rats exposed to IPD demonstrate the most pronounced apoptotic phenotype. No significant deviation from un-exposed control population was found within the other organs.
Working Hypothesis: IPD activates apoptic pathways of cells of the central nervous system and cardiac muscles.
Hopeless be dies alone/ Honey golden and eaten/ a discarded life: Necropsy and microscopy indicated that Hopeless kills by initiating anaphylactic shock. Rats displayed "empty hearts" eosinophilia in lung and cardiac tissue. Rats also displayed laryngeal edema. This suggests that MDC, a spell that is well-established as difficult to counter through magical means, may be effectively thwarted by rapid administration of epinephrine.
Working Hypothesis: Hopeless causes death by initiating anaphylactic shock. How the spell triggers this response could be elucidated through further experimentation.
Application of force along a vector #8-32-90: Only 30% of rats expired on initial exposure. Superficial examination and necropsy revealed physiological damage associated with blunt-force trauma. Bruising was evident on exposed rats. Hemorrhaging and internal bleeding apparent upon necropsy. Curiously some subjects demonstrated marked necrosis at the spell impact site, especially in skeletal muscle tissue. This is within expectations. If an attenuated version of Force bolt can be developed it could be used as a non-lethal control in future experiments.
Note: Investigate necrosis in muscle tissues. Eliminate it as a factor in future experiments.
Vital Disruption: Necropsy and staining revealed no evident cause of death. Research tabled for the time being.
Further investigation into mechanism of action Hopeless and IPD is to be conducted. IPD's impact on neural cells, glial cells and other cells associated with the central nervous system will be conducted in vitro. Different pathways of apoptosis will be investigated. Whether or not IPD activates apoptosis via the DNA damage response, the extrinsic apoptic pathway, or other pathways will be examined. Hopeless's impact on signal transduction in immune cell lines will also be investigated. Gene expression profiles could be an interesting avenue.
License: CC BY:NC:SA 3.0
Vivax Zyn: He has a terracotta monacle
17:33 Zyn "Here let me get that door for you OH GOODNESS MY HAND BROKE OFF NO DON'T BOTHER I'LL PICK IT UP IT'S ALRIGHT"
17:33 Silber (Nala) Silber: http://www.scp-wiki.net/silberescher-personnel-file Silberescher (aka Dr. Löwen Alphonse Davison Augustin Jakobs Atreides Lemuria Agloval Silberescher) has written 7 articles and 3 tales with +964 net upvotes (average +96.40) and 97 revisions, including: SCP-1425 (+179), SCP-1802 (+155), SCP-1177 (+127), plus 4 more.
17:33 Hatty YES>
17:33 Hatty That needs to exist, Zyn.
17:33 Vivax Zyn: "Dear me I seem to have partially dissolved in my tea.
17:33 *** Dr_Mann quit (Quit: )
17:34 Gara Ha ha ha ha ha
17:34 Dr_Mystery Gentleman terracotta soldier
17:34 Zyn "Heaven's, it is /so/ difficult becoming well-acquainted with the ladies when I clash terribly with every carpet in existence"
17:34 Zyn *Heavens
17:34 Dr_Mystery Interesting Idea
17:34 Hatty Silber: I always thought Silberescher was a Germanic spelling of Syllable Researcher.
17:34 Vivax "It's rude to ask a gentleman what glaze he uses"
17:35 Silber Hatty, it's a character from a book.
17:35 Gara Every carpet in existance…
17:35 Vivax "But I use fiance when the occasion presents itself"
17:35 Vivax *faience
17:36 Zyn Vivax we should collab
17:36 Vivax Zyn: Yes.
17:36 Zyn Just throw a bunch of these snippets together
17:36 Zyn I will add these to my sandbox
In the painlessness haze of opium
Mary lay in bed staring at a lithograph on
the floor, plesiosaur skeleton. Once hers. Nailed now to the wall
of a museum. The cold crept through her blanket
slithering through the closed windows. And Amon
was there among the forgotten curios.
He stood there a curiosity among curiosities
The knickknacks collected dust. Maybe it was just the opium.
Lovingly scanning the empty shells and skulls Amon
said “This is a lovely find.” She kept on
as she was, still curled under the blanket,
infantile. “There’s nothing there,” she said, “Just the creaking of the wall.
Just the creaking of the wall and the wail
of March's winds,” The museum empty of its prizes. The curator
remained; she clutched the blanket
as her life ebbed out, soothed by the tincture of opium’s
quiet numbness. She remembered the plesiosaur found on
the sea shore among the ammonites.
She looked at the man again. He grew curled ram’s horns. Amon
knelt down beside her. “All of your life you chipped at a wall,
poor woman, never stopping.” What is he on
about? She thought in the haze. My life’s work has been a curiosity
for the gentry and gossipers. They used me. The tincture of opium
sat on the table, reflecting the dunes of blanket.
“Don’t think like that. The animals that blanketed
the old Earth with their remains will be remembered,” Amon
said, “The diggers remembered in myth,” Her heart slowed its oscillations,
calming her tumor-nestled chest. The dead sat on the wall
staring down at their captor who would join them before cure
or treatment. "Don’t taunt a dying woman, you’re having me on."
He turned away. The horns on
his head disrupted the dust blanketing
the shelves. Hundreds of unsold crusts
and coprolites sat clean. Seeking amnesty
for grave robbing she sighed. Her eyes walled
shut. Where is that opium?
Ammonites are cured on the bottoms of shallow seas and become Amon.
A woman sells seashells on the seashore and runs into a wall.
The neighbors come, remark on the opium and wrap her in final blankets.