Everyone! I plead, take heed, or steed, if you need! This farm-cur has sold me and my hungry tummy a tomato which has no bones! He’s the real pill in this farm-I-see. Well, farmpoke, you’ve made a chomp chump out of this mater matey for the last time, and no bones about it, you’ve deskelated the situation. You’ve made a real marin-error, what a boneless boner! Take a seed over here as I ketch-you-up that you’ve broken the cherry-tomato of blight your repu-tomat-ion. When I bite into a juicy tom-tom, I expect to bust a molar all over your face. I shall take my business else-wise?

Hi =)

Just a reminder that other people live in this building =X haha

Please keep the noise down after 10 P. M. =) and if you are raising ghouls that’s totally ok with us! WE DON’T CARE and will NOT TELL THE SUPER AT THIS TIME!!!! =) but PLEASE clean up after them, and be sure to discard of the bodies in the FLESH REPOSITORY not the regular RECYCLING. The earth thanks you! ;)

Also, just a reminder that if you DO use the flesh repository, please CLOSE THE LID! We have had problems with neighborhood spectres in the past and would like to avoid problems in the future. We know you just moved in a few months ago, but hopefully this will be the last of the reminders we have to give you. =X DON’T WORRY about it, just want to make sure we’re all on the same page! =P

Thanks =) =) ;P Have a great day!

LORD BURLEIGH’S JOURNAL

October 3, evening.

After waking at the appointed hour, we gathered once again in the estate’s well kept library, which Mrs. Harker had been good enough to clean of the remaining body-parts and blood of our former hosts. We who remained were the good Doctor Fielding, Mr. Blothem, the railway man, Mr. Dockett, the gardener, myself, and Mrs. Harrier, who appeared to have slept quite little, with deep shadows beneath her blood-shot yet still quite pretty eyes.

The good Doctor lit his pipe, and began. “Our defenses have held quite well over-night. I have inspected the larder, and we should have provisions for another two weeks or so, which will surely be enough time to allow for our rescue. In the mean-time, I have invented a distracting enough game using a deck of playing cards I discovered in our host’s bedchambers. Adding to our amusement, the suit signs are all quite comic depictions of French politicians, which should entertain us until help arrives.”

“A game! How delightful!” exclaimed Mr. Blothem. “I adore a game. Surely we will all forget of our troubles. Please, Doctor Fielding, explain to us the game rules which you have devised.”

“Sirs, if I might interject,” said Mrs. Harrier, her voice cracking with womanly emotion. “My husband and brother are still blockaded within the garden shed, and they are without food or drink for two days now. Surely we must mount an expedition to save them and bring them in with us, where their wounds can be tended and their bodies nourished and brought back to strength.”

We men were all filled with sympathy for this poor deluded woman, clearly destroyed by grief and fear.

The good Doctor Fielding set down the comic playing cards, and cleared his throat before speaking. “Ah, my dear Mrs. Harrier, how wondrous it is! You sometimes appear almost to have the mind of a man, utilizing logic and sound reasoning, and yet it gladdens me to perceive that you still you retain the heart of a woman. While us men contemplate survival, at all costs, your heart aches for your husband and brother, no matter how foolish such thoughts might be. I do not question God’s wisdom for making you so! And am glad that He created Woman that she might show Man these gentle things, folly or no.”

“Yet, Mrs. Harrier, I am heavy hearted to need to explain to you that to open our defenses, even for a moment! may open us five to the dangers outside our doors. You, more than anyone, has seen what these creatures have been capable of by their wickedness and inborn evil. Your husband and brother would not begrudge us our own safety for the slim chance of their own lives.”

As the good Doctor spoke, Mrs. Harrier’s eyes filled with tears, which saddened us all, and I was glad for the knowledge that soon we would be learning a new game to distract us from this sorry interlude.

“Please,” she spoke, through gathering sobs. “I could hear them from my bedroom window, they cried for help, all night. It is only twenty strides from the servant quarter’s door to the garden shed, and we know that these creatures sleep through the day, and only prowl at night.”

Mr. Blothem rose from his chair, to lecture the hysterical woman. “Now, Mrs. Harrier, we must forget these men. They were doomed from the moment they chose to fight off the creatures that we might close ourselves in this house. It is better to put it out of your mind! Come now! Do not dwell on the past!”

Mrs. Harrier turned to me, trembling in her way. “Lord Burleigh, I beg of you to listen to me. Peter served with you in the Army, surely you must wish to rescue him!”

I spoke to her, as gently as I could, so that I did not enflame her female emotions any further. “Your Peter was a fine soldier, and any fine soldier would feel gladness if given the opportunity to sacrifice his life for a commanding officer.”

Mrs. Harrier staggered back from us, a sudden, inhuman rage behind her eyes. She looked as if she were to dash for the door herself! The good Doctor cried out: “Restrain her, Mr. Dockett! Before she endangers us all!”

Mr. Dockett leapt forward and grasped the woman in his thick hands, using a rope of twine to secure her as she struggled. “I’m roit so’wry ‘bout this, Missus,” he said, in his incomprehensible way. “Yer husbind is a good man, and yer brother is a good man too, but the Doctar knows whass best fer yaer. Now I’ll bring yer up to yer bed, and when yer feelin better we’ll teach ya the rules o’ the Doctar’s fun new game.”

We all found it quite an upsetting episode. However, by the time Mr. Dockett had restrained Mrs. Harrier to her bed upstairs, and returned with a bottle of fine brandy, we were all in good spirits once again, and learned the Doctor’s game with aplomb.

The campground turned out to be much smaller than the photos on their phones had suggested, a forty foot square plot of matted, rotting leaves and discarded cellophane wrappers and rainbow-slicked seepage. A rusted can of a fire pit lay smack in the middle of the ground, canted, and when they got the fire going after dark it spat sparks and oily smoke at them like malevolent vengeance for the impudence of its waking.

To each side of the camp was a thin stagger of dying, recently planted birches, with the aborted idea of separating the area from its neighbors, idiot recreational vehicles and their idiot habitants. The vehicles spewed pollution, chemical, audible, into the night, competing nu-metal setlists billowing along with the pigrotten smell of something horrible burning on the propane grills.

The firepit stank of gasoline. They sat around it, plans for s’mores abandoned, instead ritualistically passing a handle of cheap gas station rum and a two liter of Sprite around the ring.

“This tastes like infected piss,” said the sous chef, approvingly. The maître d', wrapped up in a Patagonia sweater and a knit hat, shrugged. “Well at least I brought something.”

The executive chef, who accidentally had not brought any food or supplies, pretended not to have heard him, but in his head, logged it for a later point of discussion.

The owner, who was 63 and had a serious drinking problem, smiled gamely at everyone around the circle. He was proud of himself for having come up with this great idea of a motivational outing for his staff, and due to his car ride six White Claws and 6.8 fl oz of peach Johnny Bootlegger, did not recognize the general malaise or poor state of the camp. He was smoking a long cigarette.

“I have a good idea,” he slurred, yellow cigarette smoke drooling from his small mouth, “Let’s tell spooky campfire stories.”

The sous chef did his best Brian Blessed, who he vaguely resembled and which added to the effect: “Once upon a time, there was a failing restaurant, and instead of getting monetary compensation for several awful months of service, they were dragged out to a campground and forced to be around each other outside of work hours.”

A smatter of bitter laughter passed around the ring of kitchen staff. The camper to their left began piping out the opening screeches of Freak on a Leash, covering the sounds of an escalating domestic dispute. “No no,” said the owner. “Like hook hand guy. Once upon a time, there was a guy with a, uh hook hand. He had escaped from a mental asylum. And he sounded, like this!”

He scraped the arm of his chair with his manicured fingernails, which created a dull and not very scary sound.

“Hum. I’ve got one,” muttered the heavily tattooed chef de partie, who until now had been silently musing on whether to give two weeks notice from the restaurant, or just walk out, head to Mason, Georgia to live with her uncle who fixed appliances, and let them sort it out.

The owner, who didn’t seem to have heard her, continued his very bad story. “It was a night, and there was a boyfriend and girlfriend who were in their car, up on Makeout Point, and they were, you know… doing it…”

“Doing what,” inquired the sous chef.

“I’ve got one,” repeated the chef de partie, louder. She took a long draught of the rum, chased it with Sprite, and handed it over to the maître d'. The orange light from the pitfire cast shifting shadows up her dour face, two points of dancing flame in the dark hollows of her eyes.

The other members of the circle watched her, waited as she gathered her thoughts. When she began, her voice had an odd tremble to it, that none of them had heard from her before, but each of them had heard coming from their own mouths, in the dark and hopeless corners of the night.

“I used to know this guy. Mid thirties, nondescript, heavyset, patchy beard. Each year, each October, he does these little writing exercises, little ironic scary stories, maybe a couple lines, maybe a couple paragraphs, and posts them on Facebook every day, or every other day, or whatever.”

“Facebook still exists?” asks the maître d', and no one is quite sure if he’s joking. The chef de partie ignores him and continues.

“He posts these little stories, going on nine years, now. It started off as just a little goof, something trivial to throw away as a joke while he worked on bigger and better things, but as time has passed, more and more of his dreams have fallen by the wayside, his hopes have fizzled, and the grand things he thought his life would be are rapidly slipping through his fingers, if they haven’t already slipped completely. ”

“So now, these little stories end up being a highlight for him, something to look forward to. ‘Got some good ideas for some Spooktober Stories,’ he’ll slur drunkenly to one of the few people who still speak to him. They just smile and nod, but why would they care? Most of his other relationships dissolved once they realized he’s a dead end of a human being, consumed by pride, vanity, and some misplaced conviction that he’s a ‘good person,’ which makes him sick with inaction, an unwillingness to change, improve himself, dig himself out of the hole he is sinking into.”

“This year, I imagine he’ll do it again. And, if he’s still alive next year, as his body bloats with disuse and hedonistic indulgence, he’ll do it again. Twenty, twenty five Facebook posts, each year, to no greater purpose, his failing brain dribbling out these nothing stories to the void, to three or four ‘likes’ apiece, and then… death, I guess.”

She stops there. The rest of the circle waits for the punchline, but she doesn’t produce one. Instead she just lights a Pall Mall, blows tar smoke at the oil smoke from the firepit.

“Uh,” starts the sous chef. “I mean, that’s kind of sad, but this is supposed to be a scary story. That’s not scary.”

The chef de partie leans forward, incensed, the reflection of the fire now blazing in her eyes. “Not scary? No, no, you’re wrong. You’re dead wrong.”

She grins at everyone, flames licking the wetness of her teeth, black shadows and firelight dancing along her face. “Because these sad, little stories, written by a pathetic, useless failure… oh, babes…”

“You’re IN one.”

WELCOME, TO SPOOKTOBER STORIES

YEAR 9

begone, foul spirit. you are fucking up the vibes

The Beast stalks the endless cooridors of its labyrinth. It is haunted by all the souls it's slaughtered. They are very rude. The Beast just wanted some food, and yet, they do not seem to understand or care. "Growrr," it tries to explain, its shackles jangling lightly. "You are a big asshole," the tortured spirit of Matriarch Wellarbit tells it.

"Grarr gurr," it tries, but Matriarch Wellarbit's apparition just shakes its head, big bites taken out of her neck and torso, drooling spectral gore in a fan behind her, like the court train she wore in life.

"We all hate you," chimes in the choir of decimated children. They do not understand. The Beast doesn't choose those who enter its labyrinth. Once, its meals were chosen by the Queen, political prisoners and unwanted extramarital progeny. At least they got it. You fuck up in front of the Queen, you get fed to the thing that inhabits the space beyond space.

But their souls have a big hang-pad down in the Eastern Squalor now, and rarely come torment the Beast. Since the Queen went insane and stabbed out her eyes with the damned Dagger of Uil, it's just these new kids, wandering in of their own accord, out of curiosity or greed for rumors of hidden treasure.

The rumors are true. There is a lot of treasure here. Fat lot of does that does the Beast.

"My family will never know what happened to me, and that is all your fault," grumbles Big Terry, laying with his legs spread and his intestines leaking on a pile of weathered stone. Whatever, Big Terry, thinks the Beast. They are probably happier without you. You annoying piece of shit.

[on the phone at a CIA black site]

Scary! It’s Marvin. Your cousin, Marvin HalloweenSoundsUnlimitedRoyaltyFreeSoundEffectsVol.1. You know that new sound you’re looking for? Well, listen to this!

(break for applause)

When I was twenty two, I used to sleep in a van. My bank account was zero, and what money I made from selling my mom’s jewelry I spent on beer that tasted like piss that I’d drink alone in my van. Pretty sad, right?

(break for laughter)

Now when I drink, it’s two hundred dollar bottles with my own signature on the label, and it’s in the company of supermodels who want nothing more than to be with me and the highest powered people in the world. What changed? Easy. My mindset.

(break for applause)

I found that by sacrificing what I thought I wanted, comfort, normalcy, a pain-free life, and simply drilling a hole into my own skull and extracting the nectar inside to sell for millions, I achieved my dreams, a bank account big enough to sink a battleship, and enough, pardon me, any ladies here tonight, supermodel pussy…

(break for laughter and applause)

...all by one simple technique that I’m going to teach you today.

(break for applause)

If you’ve invested the relatively small fee to be in attendance tonight, at this beautiful Marriott ballroom, you’ve already purchased the necessary tools. Look under your seats…

(break for audience to look under the seats)

You have a bone drill, a manual pump, and a small tap that will attach to the exposed skull. Get yourself accustomed to the feel of these in your hand, these are going to be the tools that bring you riches, glory, fame… and yes, supermodel pussy. Or cock, if that's your preference... no judgement here!

(break for laughter)

Now, I’m sure you’ve all noticed the large brass basin in the middle of the room. That’s where we’ll be collecting our first communal harvest tonight…

(break for applause)

i bet my sweet patootie and lost

i am now pursued tirelessly by the sweet patootie repo men, who mean to claim what's owed them at all costs...

Well. I understand your concern. Society has traditionally been suspicious of and unkind to those of us who float two inches off the ground at all times and have a bottomless chasm instead of a face, and we are all products of the society we have grown up in. I have heard worse and I don't blame you for your preconceived prejudices.

That being said, I am a perfectly lovely guy, and I'd really appreciate it if you'd invite me in. Invite me in. Come on, just invite me in. Invite me. Invite me in. Invite me. Invite me inside. Invite me inside your house. Invite me. Invite me. Invite me.

goo goo ga joob

so, a fissure opened up between earth and hell last spring
now i'm one of those heads with legs that looks like a spider
they grew some eyeballs out of my chin so i could see
i kept telling them, the slaves of satan didn't LISTEN to ME
i kept trying to tell them, i already have eyeballs... i already have legs! just let me do my thing, i'm chillin
they said shh shh shh there there little baby our eyeballs are better
our legs are better
they are NOT better they STINK
i cannot see BLUE or GREEN and i cannot wear the JEANS i like
but at least
i like
the food

it's vegan lasagna night... but hold on... this lasagna isn't vegan... my god, it's not even lasagna...! it's uncle bill! and he's lacto-ovo-pescatarian!

And then, after many days of searching, the travelers had found it at last, the small wooden sign promising a continuation of their quest. It was smudged with a thick layer of soot, barely visible against the soot smudged across the uneven stone of the tavern wall or the soot smudged on the surrounding buildings. The sign held no words (for as Gobble had explained to them, many of the patrons could not read), but instead displayed a crude engraving of a cock and swan engaged in vicious battle.

“Finally!” exclaimed Kor’tan, the Heqetian pickpocket. The delay had been getting the frog-headed rogue hopping mad, and she had half-suspected this search through the circuitous winding alleyways would never end. It seemed now her pessimism had been misplaced. She snagged a fly out of the air with her tongue, gulping it down with relief.

“At last, indeed,” grumbled Shant, the Damned Baron of Darkness. “We have seeked these crooked streets of the City of Fellflame for many needless and monotonous nights, and I have grown weary of the tiresome repetition of our quest.”

Gobble the Knee Elf (named for its height, which barely reached the level of a humanoid creature’s knee) hopped around and squeaked, in its awful little voice, “Sometimes that’s how it goes! It’s not my fault that it took you so long to find the Cock & Swan! Hee hee! If you had been paying more attention to my directions perchance you wouldst have had more fun! Hee hee!”

The Damned Baron and the frog thief stared at Gobble, who danced from one foot to the other for a great long time. They knew, much to their chagrin, that were they to murder Gobble, their ability to conclude this quest would be severed. Yet, still, they considered it for some time before disregarding the thought and carrying on.

The frog shrugged. “Well, let’s go inside, anyway, and find the guy with the directions. He’s wearing a red shawl or something, right, Gobble?”

“A red shawl, yes! Yes, enter the tavern, hee hee! I will wait out here and keep an eye on these wicked streets for… danger!” Gobble grinned and began slapping its long-fingered hands against its taut, round belly like a drum, then hummed a very annoying song slightly off time.

Shant, the Damned Baron, turned and opened the door without another word. Kor’tan followed close behind. The door closed heavily behind them, and thankfully, Gobble’s terrible song was silenced by its heft.

The interior of the tavern was hot, wet, and the darkness was nearly complete. What little light leaked in through the single window at its front seemed shrouded, as if being filtered through a thin layer of flesh. The air was thick with a reeking miasma of ale and death.

As their eyes began to adjust, the travelers perceived indistinct shapes: perhaps chairs, tables, patrons, all colorless and vague. Only a single point of distinction existed in the tavern, what looked, maybe, to be the back of a man hunched over a table, wearing a red shawl.

“There, the man in the red shawl. Let us approach with caution. I do not like the smell of this place,” Shant whispered into the frog-ear of his companion.

Slowly, the two walked towards the red shawl, avoiding what shapes they could see along the way.

“Excuse me,” intoned Shant, to the hunched form in red. “We seek information, and we have heard that you are he who might hold that which we desire.”

The form didn’t move, react to them in any way. How was it so damnably dark in here, and so damnably hot, so damnably humid… the humidity must indeed have been damaging the wooden floors, because now even they were feeling… soft… beneath the travelers’ feet...

“Hey, buddy, wake up!” shouted Kor’tan. She jabbed at the form with her froggy hand, only for it to pass through the red shawl, into a fold of flesh! And it is only then that the frog thief and the Damned Baron noticed the needle-sharp teeth lining the walls and ceiling, each as long as a man’s arm…! The huge mouth around them began drooling, savoring their imminent demise, and then-

“Okay, so I throw a saving roll.” Max throws a D20 onto the table, pissed off at the mean trick.

Jared, sitting at the head of the table in his dumb little cloak, catches the thrown die before it finishes rolling, grins a shit-eating grin back at Max.

“Oh, no no no. No saving rolls. It’s an instant death. The room is a giant mimic, and it eats your characters, chews them up, swallows them, digests them, then poops them in a big mimic toilet and flushes them.”

Max and Ryan gape at each other. Jared chuckles, satisfied with himself. Ryan spits at him: “What the fuck, man? What do you mean it’s instant death?”

“Gobble tricked you and fed you to a giant monster that looked like a tavern. What do you mean what do you mean it’s instant death? It would instantly kill literally anyone. There were many ways out of this. You could have cast detect life, you could have cast detect traps… ohhh, but you were just sooooo uninterested in playing the game the way I had it set up for you, you wanted to date a dolphin or spend whole sessions in the dance hall or whatever, and now your characters are dead, forever. Oh well!” Jared laughs and starts packing up his dice.

“We were just trying to have fun, you fucking asshole!”

Jared draws his face into a big frown, mockingly, then starts laughing again. He whips his hand out, over the table. Before they can stop him, he’s nabbed their character sheets off, and starts ripping them up, backing away from them.

Max and Ryan both shout “STOP!” at once. Jared rips, keeps laughing, rips, keeps laughing...

Max lunges at him. Jared steps back further, out of his way, keeps ripping, throwing the pieces into the fireplace.

“All gone. All dead. Better luck next-”

But. Ryan has leapt over the table, a single smoothly executed move Jared didn’t see coming. Ryan punches him in the kidney. Jared wheezes, dropping the papers, dropping onto his knees. He drools onto the floor. “Buhhh,” he tries to speak, but can’t make his mouth form the words.

“No saving roll, dickhead?” Max jeers. He kicks Jared in the face with his high tops, breaking his nose and knocking out a loose molar. Blood spurts out of both nose and mouth, spattering against the floor in little red dots. Max steps back, admires his work. He waves Ryan forward: your turn.

Ryan bows in thanks, brings back his leg, trying to deliver another kidney shot; he misses his mark, breaks Jared’s rib instead, which flips inward and punctures his lung. His breathing becomes ragged, and after about thirty more minutes, after a continuous and escalating assault with fists, feet, then a fire poker, a brick, a claw hammer... his breathing stops altogether.

your ghost is just the guy that's driving around your skeleton and meat. he's stuck in there, so that's like his whole job until the meat dies and rots enough that he can climb out.

you think he'd be better at it lmao

Jerry,

Sharon and me and most everybody else in the book club got together after you left this past Sunday and we all decided it would be a good idea to send you this letter.

Just want to say up front that we don’t think you did or are doing anything wrong. If what happened to little Eric had happened to Spencer I would have taken him to the Pit too. And of course he’s your son and you’re going to love him no matter what.

Only I think maybe you’re fooling yourself about a couple things. It’s clear to anybody that he came back wrong, but whenever we try to talk to you about it you say things like “No actually I like him better this way” and “Why is it a problem that he’s eating rats it’s keeping the neighborhood pest problem under control” and the banging helps you sleep when he throws his tiny body bloody against the door of the basement all night and so on.

But we are sorry to say this but it is not just you that it bothers. When Eric gets out and starts stabbing himself in the middle of the diner it puts everyone off their denver omelettes and Lila lost out on a lot of tips that night. And the drawings he drew in the bibles at the library are both destructive and very upsetting. Nobody believes you when you say you are happy that he is showing a lot of artistic talent for his age or that isn’t it exciting that he knows a long-dead language now.

Now what we are NOT saying is that you have to re-kill Eric. If you do of course Sharon and me will help you, we have a lot of tools that could help and of course my time in the Marines gives me a lot of perspective .

What we are saying is PLEASE do not continue to lie to yourself that you think it is “cool” that he keeps saying he knows “the names of all the lights that appear when you close your eyes” or that he can sometimes speak in the voices of our dead relatives. You know it is not fun or funny, and frankly, it is offputting to all the members of the book club when you bring him in his cage.

We kindly request that you either keep a closer eye on your son and start admitting harsh truths to yourself, or we will re-kill him ourselves.

Thank you for your understanding, and we really appreciate the points you made in our earlier discussion about The Joy Luck Club. I hope you like the next chapter, Sharon has already read it and says it is a “doozey”!

Love,

Bull and Sharon and the rest of the Sunday Night Book Club.

i'm a rattling bag of bones and i'm here to eat your kids

they don't taste very good but i'm contractually obligated

sorry

apparently nobody ever taught your tinder hookup that 'coochie coochie coo' wasn't appropriate dirty talk

Spooktober story XX_xx_XX

“So, I just looked down there for the first time and let me just say, I am appalled.”

People snicker, and one speaks up, “I love it.”

Someone spits off of the balcony.

A stray cat on the skywalk below is startled and begins to lick itself.

The dullest bird from a nearby pigeon flock is struck in the head by a sticky raindrop.

Above, the neighborhood’s pigeon obsessive squawks with delight.

Below, the neighbors reel in their laundry and shut their windows in preparation for a drizzle of white shit.

“Look at those doves.”

“Beautiful. And look, we can almost see the sun.”

Barely-pattering smears appear on the sand, b(h)inkling with faint but pleasant sound. Binkle. Binkle.

“We’re gonna have to clean our laundry line. I’ll call the neighbors and let them know.”

*Ring Ring*

*Ring Ring*

Click.

…

… … …

“Hello? …”

A stray cat bats at the head of a stunned and spitcovered pigeon. The cat sniffs in. The pigeon barely flutters its wings frightening the cat into an anti-curious and overzealous backwards leap.

A neighbor below bemoans the shadow cast across their window.

“Oh, now what’s this?”

“…

…… … ……

… Beep - Beep - Beep - Beep - …”

The neighbors across the way aren’t answering their phone.

“Someone spit again.” says a neighbor above.

“You’ll spit, you did it before.”

“Nah, I can’t spit. Not anymore. That was stupid.”

The cat jumped too far, accidentally flinging itself from the skywalk and down to the laundrylines. Neighbors start to take notice.

“Well, I’m perfectly happy just going back inside. We should keep playing if nobody’s gonna spit.”

“I’ve got some coins.” says a neighbor above.

A couple of shabby, chipped coins almost glisten in the almost sunlight.

A neighbor far below notices a tug on their laundryline.

“Oh, oh whoa, hey hey come here!”

“No way!”

A screen door, luxurious and aerated as it could possibly be, closes behind a partyful of neighbors.

“Back to it then? Okay, cowards.”

A pigeon on the skywalk stands upright.

A neighbor reels back their laundryline in a hurry.

“They’d better unlock the damned gear! Or pick up the damned phone!”

A flock of pigeons are ill-met by brutal roostings beyond the neighbors above.

Someone relinquishes, “Okay I’ll fucking spit.”

A pigeon on the skywalk coos.

A neighbor below shrieks.

A flock of pigeons remakes itself whole.

Jon Phillips spits onto the stuck laundryline of a neighbor’s below.

A black cat lands predictably on its feet, way, all the way down on the sands below the belowest neighbors, cursing each neighbor it passed.