'Objects In Space'
The fictional Buffista City. With a variety of neighborhoods, climates, and an Evil Genius or two, Sang Sacre is where we'd all live if it were real. Jump in -- find a neighborhood, start a parade, become a superhero. It's what you make it.
Eddie had to leave the bar and drive off in his Subaru Outback(tm). I sat there on the stool, nursing my shot of tequlia. Okay, I never ordered a drink and wasn't nursing anything, but I was still in a bar. Time to get on the case and stop sitting around like a dead armadillo on the highway.
I rumbled over to town hall in my AMC station wagon. There it was, an art deco monument to government, only the monument was coated in the pigeon droppings of corruption these days.
The pigeon droppings of corruption on the monument of government are only a reflection of the hard water stain of apathy on the faucet of civilization.
The doggy doo-doo of apathy joins the pigeon droppings of corruption upon the monument of government.
Too bad I don't care enough to clean it all off.
What this town needs is a giant Mr. Magic Clean Eraser. Those other ones, the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser... well, we don't really want to erase the magic around here, do we?
It's a bigger mess than feared, as the the monkeys have flung simian skat of insincerity, which has joined the aforementioned doo-doo and droppings.
Ha! Totally tagged, connie!
I'm It!
It was a stark and barmy night: the bits came in torrent - except at occasional intervals when it was checked by network outages which swept up the magick conduits (for it is in Sang Sacre that our story lies), rattling along the treetops, and agitating the scanty flame of flaminess that struggled against the drabth.
"Hector?"
"Yes, boss?"
"Is there such a thing as a metaphor storm?"
"Not that I know of. Or would have known of until recently."
"Hm. Well, looks to be a bad one. Batten the hatches and whatnot and bring me a dozen sets of encyclopedias. The literal nature of the things may protect us."
I slam the phone down on the hook, and head back to the kitchen table muttering under my breath. "Stupid pollsters got nothing better to do than bother people when they're trying to eat breakf..."
I'm brought up short by the contents of my cereal bowl. I blink. And blink again. Nope, still there. "What the..."
I glance suspiciously at the bird, but he's staring at his bowl in confusion, too. I pick up a spoon, and start lifting up and looking at bits from the bowl. Very strange. No cereal, just fruit. Two minutes before I'd poured myself a bowl of Life™, but now it was just a bowl of cherries.
Where have all the flowers gone?
They're blowin', man, blowin' in the wind.
