PoeticProgression

“Yi.” A gentle hand and a softer voice tugged at the weary master’s shoulder. “Yi. It’s time to go.” “With all due respect, Captain,” Yi replied hoarsely. “I would like another five minutes.” “All yours,” Captain Irelia said solemnly. “But please, no more than five minutes.” She cast her eyes over the death and ruin surrounding them. The stench of acid and a number of unidentifiable chemicals left an acrid taste in her heart. “It does no good to linger.” The seven-spectacled warrior nodded slowly. He reached for his goggles with trembling hands

The house Waylan and Talos investigated was dismal, to say the least. It was abandoned after the murder, and now stood dark and quiet against the dying day. Waylan found the room the murder took place in – the body had been moved long before, but the blood stains remained, such a dark red by now they were almost black. Strangely enough, Waylan thought of Aunt Mae, who kept no religion but the one that demanded her house was spotless and clean each day. Good luck getting this out of the carpet, he thought. He left the living room and sought out Talos in the kitchen. Maybe the mute machine of a man found something. “Any luck?&rdqu

It was a solemn drive up the hill, my highbeams penetrating deep into the darkness of the unpaved road before me. Through my open window I could hear loose gravel crunch beneath my wheels, the rough sound poking through the purr of my engine. My radio was off ­– some nights demanded silence. The road leveled out as I approached the top of the hill, upon which sat a small monastery overlooking the city below. I parked the car, killed the engine and switched off the lights. The sudden quiet was soothing. I gazed up at the sky from my open window, and smiled. There were so many more stars up here, so many good friends. I'd known them and

“Welcome to Wordsworth,” said the clerk, his eyes half-closed and listless. “What can I… excuse me.” His lips parted into a gaping yawn while he stretched his arms across the counter. Thomas waited patiently. The young boy was hardly taller than the counter. He could count the specks of dust drifting lazily across the hardwood. His brown hair was tousled but soft, and his blue eyes watched the clerk intently. “Sorry,” he said, though Thomas thought he could be more sincere. That was Thomas’ latest word: sincere. It cost him thirty credits, but he felt it was well worth it. At least, it was wo