The Adventure of the Dragon Manuscript

The silence of the Ostland sent a shiver of warning down the Baron’s spine. Nobody came to greet the Baron after he used the ropes to climb aboard. He called out in Russian and English. He received no answer. With his sword raised, the Baron began searching the Ostland for signs of life. He found none.

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The Iron Way: A Narrative of Crisis

The Sisyphean nature of the ocean is strange to me. The coast haunts me. I miss the wide open plains of the Midwest. I miss the changing of the colors and the biting wind of winter. Here, in this tropical southern clime, nothing changes, not really. I see a dead fish wash up upon the beach, or what’s left of him: a gaping head, a spine, a bit of entrails tangled in the seaweed. He is rolled about in the waves and tangled in matter beyond his will. The whole place stinks of putrefaction. Florida is full of rotting fish and rotting people. The holiday atmosphere is merely garish lead paint; the mold penetrates everything.

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Seneca Rōka
Sanity

I sit on the redwood bench that was installed during the first FDR administration, according to the little brass plaque, eating a peanut butter and honey sandwich and watching the wannabe Masters of the Universe shamble across the ancient bricks. I read Bonfire of the Vanities a few weeks ago and, man, this place is full characters that I think I could find a part for them, somewhere in there.

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Seneca Rōka
David and the Death of Ishbosheth

The sweltering heat of the midday had given way and cool evening breezes from the west were beginning. David, now girded in some of his light armor with most of his men seated in assembly, wandered over to a window, hearing some tumult outside. Two men with full, thick beards, one of whom had obvious reddish-brown stains below chest level on his garments, were riding brown horses into the city toward David’s headquarters. As he sized the men up from a distance, he said, “We have some visitors. Let’s meet them outside.”

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The Summoning

From fathomless, endlessly dark and bottomless caverns
Where the fevered sigh of rebirth and creation issues forth hope yet despair
Rushed forth, as a thousand daggers, unite, into the gradual formation of baying and howling gales
Echoing, reverberating, lashing, whipping into formless, breathless winds
That envelop the cold pale shivering tender flesh of a ghoul forlorn to Time lost, removed from eternity and without course that follows no star

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Dear Stranger

But I hope there is a flaw in the cosmic ink, a glitch in the code, or something that transcends these powers and allows my letter to reach you. Perhaps there is, for I believe the universe has a soul of its own, a soul which is beyond God’s will or computer logic, a soul that listens. And I hope the universe is listening to me as I write this letter. I pray that my voice will one day reach your ears, and that it is not lost to the cold, dark kingdoms of void.

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