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Inspired by a fanart from Oekaki Candy blog.
In this tranquil hour of the early evening, this particular hour when everything seemed to be slowly settling in for the night, the quietness of the Lakewood gardens, as well as the coppice that separated them from the lake was unique, almost mystical. If it was disturbed in any way, it was broken only by a single sound here and there, the tweets of a bird in the trees' crowns, the flutter of wings between the branches, the buzz of a late bumble bee hurrying back to its hive. Those sounds were quiet unlike in the daytime, when all birds, bugs and all manner of creatures alive bustled around the whole place, still dizzy on the energy that had awoken in their bodies when spring had finally arrived.
The air was still pretty warm after a hot spring day, though it was clear that it would be much cooler soon. The breeze from the lake, for now only the slightest of breezes, was the first indication of that.
THE PONY'S HOME MYSTERY, Chapter 8
Two months later...
"How far did you get?"
Distracted right in the middle of a very interesting article about unusual meteorological activity, Albert lifted his eyes from above the newspaper and looked at Candy with a smile, who had just appeared by the kitchen door and walked towards him.
"Hmmm, let me see " he murmured. "I jumped straight to page eleven, so, here, you can read the first few pages "
He handed her the desired page and smiled wider in amusement when Candy grabbed it eagerly. They had been meeting up for the last two months, also spending time in her apartment and one of the small things he enjoyed was reading the newspaper after dinner, while Candy washed the dishes. He liked it because it had somehow become a habit that she would join him and snatch some of the pages from under his nose. He had nothing against it, especially that she would sooner or later snuggle closer to him and they would end up reading it together or doing someth
THE PONY'S HOME MYSTERY, Chapter 7
It was late afternoon when Candy and Albert left the orphanage, promising to visit soon again and to give back all the clothing that they had borrowed. Albert also promised to take care for the materials needed for fixing the destroyed roof.
This time Albert drove slower, making sure that the car wouldn't shake too much. Every sudden movement of the vehicle was causing Candy to grimace in pain and he wanted to avoid that as much as he could. But she kept reassuring him that the pain wasn't unbearable.
Both felt the need to talk more seriously but it didn't seem like the atmosphere was right for it in the car. That's why they stopped off by the lake, a little bit before entering the Andrews' estate.
The night was cold but bright, with no clouds and at first, they were just happy to admire the full moon reflected off the lake's calm surface. For a moment, they just stood by the lake's shore, relished in the view, grateful for being able to see it again. The events of the pre
may as well buy another packcollapse, and breathe into the carpet:
sunday mornings are not
for falling apart, but damn
the amphorics, this
is not an atmosphere.
you fell in love like you always
wish you didn't, made all their
smiles replaceable, interchangeable,
fell asleep with shadows and kept
drinking, just letting yourself sleep
with blue pills
and tried not to scream.
(keep this image in your head:
fire and nectarines, a sudden jerk
of realization, inspiration
breaking your neck and leaving you forever
breaking bones is not so different
from breaking hearts - it's all about
the leverage, the angle, the mode
(and at least it wasn't personal;
it can color in your own guilt
for starting lines and never ending
A Turning Point in the Clockwork WarA war of attrition
depends on supply and drawdown,
how much you have and how much you use up.
With personnel, the balance concerns
the influx of recruitment versus
the outflow of casualties, deserters, invalids.
There is only so much loss
that a fighting force can sustain
and still fight.
Pilot Claude Archer was the first
to challenge his invalid discharge.
"I don't need legs to fly," he said,
patting the healed stumps of his thighs.
"My Osprey runs on elbow grease."
The members of the discharge board
paused and looked at each other.
What he said was true.
The Osprey-class fighter jets
relied on hand controls,
and a sharp eye and iron nerve.
Fingers flicked through the stack
of discharge papers -- so many, many pages.
So many soldiers lost, never to fight again.
They could not afford to let slip even one
who might be retained, somehow,
to face the front line once more.
Far less could the war effort spare
one of its best pilots.
So they put Pilot Archer back on the roster,
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