scott macleod

THE OPPOSITE SURFACE

When we last saw Ostracod IV, in perplexing urban miles, that well-meaning jostle, he was publishing a warmongering daily gaily. His self-esteem, a lens through which light from external generosity enters to form an image of phosphorescent clamp paranoia on the opposite surface, without which something absolutely indispensable or essential is indefinable, bossily offers more than its additional coverage.

Objects hearing the objects thus being satisfaction, I am suddenly in a strange lot with an advantage ticket, one that comes with ridge food handwriting. Nowadays we inculcate that excommunicate sludge like it was alphabetic, or San Diego. Even if it wasn't described as interwoven allergy crappy, qt. decency, qt. freewheeling foolishness.

Then after Nepal got to the carpet, we bid ado to the sympathetic mighty Ostracod IV, the helter-skelter troll, and his taciturn captor, the roving Glacial Soprano. So when evocation was too passive, we, as charter members, mesh, as mope of gay was carbon dioxide, as mope of criminal prosecution was strawberry collar.

Ostracod IV: dynamo or legend? His undeniable sweatshirt horseback riding power outage suitcase popularized heavy metal, V-neck monotherapy far better than the dope watercoolers. The finder, the twig, the recuperation: secondary. That splitting cross of an joyless trespass was symptom and goad. A fraternal gymnastics of impurity. Joyrider and subterfuge, flown rein.

There was not another word between them as they moved yet Ostracod IV could not help watching those breasts. They jiggled only slightly from each step, yet that tiny motion filled him with an uncontrollable desire. His cock jerked and ached within his slacks constantly reminding him, and then as the Glacial Soprano guided him to the sofa, she turned him to face her. He could feel his body shake with lust, desiring to grasp her and plant the most sensuous kiss upon her lips, but he fought the desire with the last of his will.

My attempt hadnt quite been strong enough to kill me but certainly knocked me out for-

I'm glad to have been of service to you.

OK cool, not at this time maybe? Just see what I typed above and you can cancel renewal so as to lace the heartbreak. His cock rose within his slacks, hard and wanton, as his eyes took in the sight.

You must say nothing, while he is with us, about certain marks that will appear upon his forehead; but when he has gone I will explain those marks so you will understand them.

OK, be a nausea scientist. The tight smoothness of her skirt as it strained against the pressure of her delicate rump. The long sensuous lines of her thighs, as they tugged tightly against that material, as well as the soft delicate dimples at the back of each knee.

I’m afraid nothing else can be done by the rest of the dominant military powers with Latinized names. But we detect an advantage to broader spectrum monotherapy. The combination should perform well. Going to be okay.

Right. So just cartilage me forward-looking, see? It reminded him of the fantasy dream he had earlier that morning, how he laid her over his own desk in much a similar fashion and took her. He wondered how that sexy rump felt, and how she'd react as he pressed himself into it. Could he possibly think of a reason to get that close, and 'accidentally' have that happen?.

Are you sure you're ok? she asked with a definite air of concern.

It looks promising for all of us.

A period of general stability under the influence of bankruptcy. A design combination that, without admitting guilt subjects, found an advantage. With the former we did not assume, while with the latter we do not wish. But it's time for me to go.

Great work: a great work, esp: the greatest achievement.

Oh, don't mention it, replied the Glacial Soprano, lightly. If we used lactam or aminoglycoside. in combination to contend but not preclude denying the truth of a scientifically proprietary revenge done soon by the people of Africa, we could be said to have plucked the day, for the enjoyment of the pleasures of the moment without concern for the future.

Well, in a volcano: glorify fire.

Affirmative proposition.

Ostracod IV said (as a response) that the observed facts logically simulate anything previously relating to or derived by reasoning from a condition and its consequent statement.

The Glacial Soprano mussed her hair, recreated thick menstrual trick or treat peregrinations, smiled and replied: let’s honk the squid.

Then after Ostracod IV covered his eyes with spectacles. Agreed to rainbowgahsk. As to expend a falsetto onus, chemically. Came like an aristocratic drawl in a smashed gallery.

Lickety-split.

Whaler. Sensitive extremity.

Sweaty gunnysack. Sarcophagus.

Ostracod IV clambered with impotent rage into what was left of a pair of shaking Russian underpants. Guzzler. Good-for-nothing darkened enclosure having an aperture.

The Glacial Soprano tore the buttons off his long underpants where they were fastened at the ankles, in the hope that people might think they were a pair of lightweight summer trousers. She then picked up the ikon, the candle and matches and set off, saying to herself: remember that you must die: a reminder of mortality; esp: death's-head. Her fist into space.

Ostracod IV standing at the long gaze. Bona fide post-mortem examination reflected in the water. After all, he had practically nothing on but a bathrobe, pair of underpants.

Later, there would be three minutes' silence and they would burst out into song again. Silence--then more singing!

A torn blouse, a candle, a paper ikon and a box matches.

Lubricant of a photogenic martyrdom.

Then suddenly the Glacial Soprano began singing the second verse, opened her mouth and deafened the whole street with a song, a plea to conviction, a tone-deaf audio benediction, an old next-door stopgap transposition rewarding people who began to realise that something terrible was happening.

Led by Ostracod IV, who may not have had perfect pitch but who had quite a pleasant high tenor, everybody started to go back to their tables sheltered from the pitiless sun under the makeshift tents.

They finished the verse but they had no time to eat before quite against their will they all started singing again. And they could not stop. Stupefied with boredom, they cursed the three tenors standing in the back of the lorry and holding each other round the shoulders, personally unacceptable or unwelcome.

Disloyalty as actuality. God knows who she is. Simply some stupid girl from Sadovaya Street.

His long sword bumped against his laced leather, double-jointed, hard-core top of the shaft. A fallacy resulting from a simple conversion of a universal dark chamber where a muddy stream flowed. Some stupid girl from Sadovaya Street, singing.