From for Inktober.

Brook fondled his beard over and over, and abruptly stopped, and asked.
Why’s he called ‘Brother’?

Blake snorted.
He’s called that because he makes people believe in God, Brook.

The fondling resumed.

And he ain’t gonna be trouble?

Blake turned towards Brook this time, and huddled over the tabletop.

Look, if you want people out of your way, Brook, if you want as few of anybody as possible, between you and that box, Blake pointed towards an imaginary safe at the center of the table. Then you want Brother Reverend to make sure that Sunday Service is in full swing…

From for Inktober.

Beads of concentrated worry trickled and united at the intersection of Neck and Collar. The oppressively white cap was twice more adjusted, and matching gloves choked out the concrete gray handle of the driver. He closed his eyes and envisioned the ball soaring rapidly through the air, until it was nothing but a snowflake with a too grand sense of urgency, then they opened again.

The club rose, a roller coaster car exponentially gaining potential — for excitement, for disaster. Everything tightened, lips, neck, buttocks. Even the squinty eyes seemed to squint with unparalleled squintyness. Two steady breaths. One unsteady…

From for Inktober.

Five different tools to accomplish the same task. Eight different shades to realise the same blend. The word ‘excess’ had lost its meaning in this realm, but what seemed superfluous to most, might even prove inadequate to the perfectionist.

Brushes danced across the canvas with fervor. Not a single stroke unmastered. Firm, precise, delicate, forgiving. The unintended would be given no room to breathe here.

The performance would pause, and resume, pause and resume. Each trickle of sweat, instantly made no more. Dissolve, mask, reconsider. The intensity whistled and ran, whistled and ran. Vibration underwent metamorphosis, and emerged tremble. The unintended had broken in.

The brush fell, the canvas, ruined. Tears, attempted to be wiped away, fell in pairs all the same. Looks wrestled to escape, to no avail. Conclusion cut through her veil of hands to reveal fear; paramount.

She was beyond saving.

From for Inktober.

I really, really, really want to go! Can we please!?

Amelia ran, jumped and rolled around the living room, leaving a tornado of toys, clothing, and other miscellaneous items in her wake. Jonathan sat back in the couch and put his arms behind his head.

Do you genuinely believe, Amelia, that this is the best way of convincing me?

He stared at the various items, which were somewhat unevenly spread out all over the floor. Having become an ever cleverer negotiator, Amelia presented him a deal:

If I clean this up, can we then go?

Jonathan moved both hands to…

From for Inktober.

This is a cop-out, not an excuse!
All of these huskies, they’ve got me confused…
What could I write, about huskies, at all?
My paper is blank, I’m empty in thought.

I feel like a failure, I must admit.
I feel like a loser, who’s feeling like shit.
Humiliated, and crushed, and defeated!
By a cute little husky, I have been beaten.

From for Inktober.

The television disappointed once more. In the household of Atsushi Hatarakimono, it seemed that the only scheduled program was static. He apologised to his children, and promised for the fourth day in a row to have the repairman come over and take a look at it. Unfortunately for Atsushi, the repairman was not an individual he could afford to acquaint himself with. He’d simply have to spend yet another night tinkering away in the dark. Last night he’d had it working for a little bit, likely, it wasn’t more than a loose connector. Somewhere.

The breakfast was, as always, consumed…

From for Inktober.

What on earth are you doing out here!
You’re lost?
Did somebody knock you off course?
Hah! Why’d you let them do that for?!
Oh… You never learned how to sail?
Then why’d you get in a boat without learning how to sail! Silly!
I gotta say, you kind of have yourself to blame for getting stuck all the way up here.
But hey!
If you want to come with me, I’ll let you tag along!
Where am I going? Home, sort of.
I’ve never actually been there before. Which is strange, right?
Like. ‘How can you be going Home if…

From for Inktober.

All it took was a light breeze, and suddenly the smell of a freshly baked apple pie had the whole forest bustling! Owen the Owl batted his wings and soared to the top of the Grand Tree. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath to announce the news to every creature in earshot:

Bees, bears, badgers and birds
There’s a feast at The Stump, let it be heard!
Rats, foxes, gophers, and owls
Come on everybody, gather around!

And just like that, every tree was teeming! Every brush was bustling! Not a single soul wanted to miss out…

A robed woman with one breast exposed lying on her side. Smoking the last of a cigarette.
A robed woman with one breast exposed lying on her side. Smoking the last of a cigarette.
From for Inktober.

Whatever this was, whatever it had been, she could no longer put her lips to. The sensation lacked sensation. The motion lacked intent, floating about in an obscure mass of sweat and other liquids. Clawing and pulling had seized to root her. Groans roused no suspicion.

A brief moment of solid, tactile thought, allowed her annoyance at everything it lacked. This whole experience, it wasn’t shared. None of them were. Just transactions. Currency changing hands. One pocket grew thinner, another thicker. But who gave and who took? …

From for Inktober.

As if suffocated for the past twenty six months the room seemed to be gasping for air when the door opened. The yellow walls, wardrobes, chairs, desks, sheets, drapes, and, well, everything had stuck to their dress code in the absence of anyone updating them on what’s new. Dust swirled around and beams of light cut through the blinds becoming dots and circles decorating the room.
The cabinet doors involuntarily pried open, and a ray sunlight hit the backboards for the first time in years. Two trembling hands began excavating the space without much direction. They scoured shelves and crevices…

Edvin Kempe

Really upset that the handle @billielane is taken on Instagram.

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