From my vantage point I look for any moving shadows, but they are always twigs or bushes, not even a stray cat. When I hear a rustling, I turn one-hundred-eighty degrees, but it’s just a chocolate wrapper carried around by the ecstatic wind, which seems to enjoy the empty streets. I wait and keep looking. They must be somewhere.
Their skin was a terrible orange colour. Still. If they could, they would peel it off and dump into the nearest trash bin.
Utopias are believed to be boring, but you definitely can’t say it about this novel.
Tamarak took the last vial off the distillation set and held the result to the light. Apart from a few tiniest sediment granules, it was perfect. Their alchemy wasn’t so much different to his chef’s duties after all. He poured the deflavoured, re-constituted, magicalised blood into the cupcake cream, stirred thoroughly and scooped a portion to decorate the bases.
Again and again the fourth dimension went crazy at that particular moment and the time portal spewed him out wrong minutes or parallel hours earlier or later. He recalibrated his warp-watch time and again; he didn’t have the additional gravitational compensators on him, and he was afraid to search for them unless he be carried away in the ever-splitting flow, dragged off by routines set to him by the source mind craving complexity.