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Story Fragment IIBefore anyone could speak further, a thunderous boom could be heard against the door. The four slowly turned and backed up, as the sound crashed again. Reinhardt unfurled his whip, as Henry and Leon drew their swords. William ran off towards the staircase leading to the second floor. Henry turned in time to see him pull a revolver with some sort of contraption attached to the end of it; as he leaned on the railing towards the doorway.
Before he could think on it any further; the door came crashing off it's hinges as a towering figure stepped into view.
He had on a stained brown shirt, along with a red vest.
His skin was grey; and along his body were scars with thick, black stitches running along them.
"… I don't suppose he's been chasing you two as well?" Henry quipped, as he watched the figure lumber into the room towards them.
The man had to duck underneath the door frame to get in; he was easily a foot taller than them; if not more. The men noticed that he had so
Story Fragment ITwo people... running.
...Or were they tears?
She couldn't tell. Carrie looked out of the basket she was being carried in... was she a baby? Had she shrunk?
She wasn't sure. A blue-haired woman looked back at her, smiling and hushing her and then turning to look at the man next to her. He had a scruffy goatee, and seemed worried... no... he seemed scared of something.
They both stared down at Carrie in the basket; giving her warm smiles before their faces turned to horror.
The next thing she knew, she was falling. Falling in an empty void; evil laughter was the only thing she heard.
She could see dark, blood red eyes in the distance.... beginning to venture near her.
She lay there, motionless in the void; as her body refused to move. She simply watched the eyes as they approached her; a large dog began to take shape behind the eyes.
Its eyes... they were full of malice and anger, his fur was in bloody, stiff pieces along his body; Carrie could even see pieces of muscle
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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