The anathema that was Beatrice Kent, and a wee bit more.


The bones of the earth, huge, grey and grubby cast their shadow over Beatrice. Black souled birds of doom shrieked and clattered in the sky above her. These Cessna sized winged beasts, little more than black skin stretched taut over muscle and bone, caused their leathery hides slap and crack as they gnawed jagged lumps of sky. Blue sky blood drizzled down over her like late November rains. And yet, the rains would not penetrate the ground, nothing would grow.


Reeking carrion of now agoraphobic earth filled Beatrice Kent’s nostrils, she inhaled with relish. So dead was the soil, that nothing but the bones of the earth remained in her desolate strip of heaven.


Smiling, Beatrice opened her eyes. In the manner of a four-year old child tearing the wings from blow flies, Beatrice returned to the task of pulling the wings from parrots. Their feathers were fetching a pretty penny this year.




Click the picture. It is different and super groovy.





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