Scott felt perception almost come to him, cotton covered and remote, beyond where he could move to. Voices were nearby, but he couldn’t properly hold onto them. He wanted to be sick, the taste of cough medicine and the bitter heat of bile washed around his throat and nasal passages, but he was too focused on remembering to breath to allow his stomach to leave him. He wanted to open his eyes, but they wouldn’t listen to what he told them. Slowly he became aware of a sensation of being touched, the voices almost coming to where he could see them and hear the shape of what was being said, but all he could make out were fragments of something happening somewhere else.
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Loose Lips – 100 Wor… on Archived story #4 The Pat… KR on Unsung Genre Heroes – Ho… the master on The Siren Song Pandemonium! | S.L.… on Review: Pandemonium: Stories o… Daniel on Review: Pandemonium: Stories o…
- RT @AbrahamHanover: In an age of performative cruelty, kindness is punk as fuck. Be punk as fuck. 1 month ago
- RT @sixthformpoet: Apparently my first ever word was “Dada”, after which I never mentioned avant-garde art movements again. 1 year ago
- RT @jamesdoleman: Explains why the pub wouldn't serve me a red large wine last night https://t.co/DJxT0PtN3q 1 year ago
- RT @tkingdot: What wobbles *and* falls down? Schrodinger's Weeble 1 year ago
- @Match thanks for replying; dm sent. 1 year ago