Play Gametechdecklive

Paul Carbone fell from the train. His body rolls down the embankment, the skirts of his jacket floating give the appearance of a strange beetle gray. A tense arm on his stomach, just above the liver, the red hand of his own blood, and on hand, a black hole with regular borders, where death comes to surprise in the dampness of a night train Paris-Nice. Now his corpse defiled ground and scratched by brambles lies a few meters from the railway, in a pitiful and miserable little pile. * * *



She opens her eyes, and removes a specific act that the speaker crackles at the bottom of his right ear. A low whistle discomfort listening to the song, and parasite flow of images, one after another, just rhythm to his pleasant drowsiness. She turns off the equipment on his knee, leans over, opens his briefcase and pulls out a packet of copies of students, some of which are already daubed with red. She goes to work.

The train enters the station, mechanically modulated voice resonates in the car to announce the arrest. She gets up, puts on his coat, grabs her bag and down the train.

The cold slap, it brings the edges of his collar, not the press. The coffee there, the hot lights, the hiss of the percolator. A hazelnut croissant, the bus arrives in twenty minutes. On the counter, the tiny girl of the boss, sitting, chewing a sandwich with a contemplative air. She has a flower name, Capucine. Mine crumpled, smell delicious sleepy little girl, still steeped in dreams.

The bus slows down, stops at the gate of the school. It snowed yesterday, a cold moisture soaks the ground, his boots sinking. She climbed breathing hard the path to the building it will occupy today. It has six hours of classes to give Monday is a big day. She returns to her mentally schedule, number of rooms, students' names, the texts it should be photocopied. Will she have enough money to borrow some coffee? She knows that she drinks a little too much, it is certainly not very good. It recognizes a student who is waiting, standing in front of the building's entrance, perhaps the arrival of a friend. She smiled, hoping she does not greet, she did not want to talk.

The warmth of the staff room fell on her shoulders, the piece that sizzles the hum of conversations scheduled for the copier can not interrupt. She approaches the large rectangular machine, made his choice, the mechanism snaps into a small metallic noise and can get a few moments later the cup filled with hot liquid, to taste unpleasant, but still comforting . It tries to avoid his colleagues, wants to preserve this last bubble of silence before the big show - because just now, immediately, it will keep them, attract them to her, seduce them, again and again ...

The first bell rings in the hallway. She hurries to the end of drinking his coffee, throw the cup into the trash, adjusts his bag on his shoulder and headed for the stairs. Waterspouts of students rushed to the classroom, she has the impression of being grazed by a cyclone disheveled and screaming. She retains her sternly, trying to preserve his dignity - to an arrival faculty, not to show the anguish that still captures the giddiness that hugs his heart at the door, then they are massed there, smiling, cheeky, kind, if disturbing ... The second ring barely covers the hubbub, we're at it, the game can resume.

What Does Yeduc Contain?

Preamble The decision time

The spooler runs the Web
blasts if tenuous, and bites
hearts, O impatience
What choice? Dying safe
In the quiet days oppressive equal
Or live
Calling the infinite seas trembling vibrato,
When the spooler its tangled foliage
And that wire is no longer
What nodes where the heart surrenders .

Cost Of Building A Racquetball Court

Why?

New pages, space available as a skin caressed yet ...
There is always the man whom the rage to write a kind of modesty a bit deaf to all these whiteness it prepares to mark its secretions intellectual - when the thought process continues in touch when, the passivity of the idea as a mechanism meets the business of writing.
The word "writing" includes also a laborious and monastic connotations that perfectly matches what has become today the task of the writer. Where are the dilettantes
Stendhalian, what happened to the je ne sais quoi of all the great classics, the thrill of sensual pleasure that is the most aristocratic ?
Where is Montaigne, the patron saint of lovers?
The time for reflection. The author looks at writing, he listens to think - and as it does not derive any real satisfaction of course, he theorizes his book to refrain especially feel it.
That's what I've done ...

What Color Shutters For A Blue House

Promenade Park

It's cold. Fortunately he found the door miraculously opened, it offers a much shorter path to the bus stop. He imagines the table, kitchen, well-filled glasses. They probably already led the bottles, the maestro behind her kitchen putting the finishing hand to his work, they are just waiting for him.
He runs on the roads as if frozen by an early frost. Frost in October, never seen, the cold was like before the city after two weeks of continuous rain, and everyone digs into his memory to recover memories of winter comes too soon take the place of the Indian summer. Most of the season, Atmosphere botched ... He smiles and thinks the fears of the year one thousand. Forecasters are warm to theorize about time, and he who does not care much for this short climate for earlier releases of this giant iceberg. The cold even distorts his vision; he thinks he sees the trees moving, deforming the benches. Its not sound like very small repetitive echoes.
A gravel lodged in his shoe. He growls, trying to continue, resigned, and abuts on the base of Diana overlooking the South Lawn of Luxembourg. From the top of her thighs superb hand ready to plunge into his quiver, she looks at his fingers numb struggle with the laces, a smirk on his lips. See this tall man with a hundred lashes for a tiny pebble, so it is so ridiculous as that, man?
"My old, your comment is not original. If you're cultivating a little, instead of look stupid people with a bow in hand, you know. In the genre cliche, it is not better! "
The gravel is gone, Mark throws an angry look toward the statue, as if to verify that it has taken note of what he has to throw. Does he dream? but she laughed at this, the bitch!
He laughed too. If he does during his life incurring the contempt of the statues, it is not so bad.
He joined the main path, turns one last time, waved his hand toward the mocking friendly, no hard feelings!
It takes three steps, stumbles, falls, stifling a groan.
We must believe that it was more serious than he thought and he has an arrow stuck in the wood back, and his body now forms a small mound shabby, already hardened by the frost.

Denise Milani's Stomach

The future of mankind Breaking

The other day I laid an egg. An egg rather pretty, brown, slightly speckled with red, perfectly smooth and regular. An egg like any other egg. Finally, what an egg.
It was out two weeks I was feeling a little bloated - what I put into the account of chronic constipation, sore but oh so little literary common among the female population. Bread, laxatives, various remedies; my transit improved, my discomfort persisted. Like a little ball of chewing gum stuck to the intestinal wall, egg, he prospered.


Now that I think, luckily I could catch it in time. I still feel some responsibility towards him, he would have been a pity he foolishly perish at the bottom of the bowl of the toilet. Mostly it seems to me that our species, lay eggs is not an act so commonplace. You tell me, there are eggs. A healthy female lays one egg every 28 days. Finally, lays ... That's all much like an egg, except that it does not come out. And above all, an egg, it does not brood.
Because the problem is there. I talked to Peter, of course, and the first surprise, we agreed on one point: we will have this egg hatching. I look good, well, after narrowly drafted to let him die like that without a little attention, without even an effort to make it bloom!
The trouble is that neither Peter nor I have time to hatch an egg. I inquired: incubation, it can be long. Especially that, I suppose, the incubation of a human egg has to have some similarities with pregnancy in utero. I guess it is fine to have at least two or three months to give it something. Where? Peter and I are working on. Even taking turns, I can not see us succeed in maintaining a regular breeding for three months.
And then will add details idiots, who can all put down in less than two. How hatching? Should we sit on it? Do not we risk so the crush? At what temperature should you keep? How to recognize warning signs of the outbreak? A real Chinese puzzle
... My mother has found a temporary solution: the incubator. Just find an incubator, set to arrive in about 37 degrees - that the temperature inside the human body, so it should go, and wait. No need for constant presence, no fear of breakage ... the perfect nanny somehow. Unless an incubator, it is not the Samaritan. Then we have our minds to turn to the medical profession.
Meanwhile, I put the egg in a kettle.


This idiot doctor has put five minutes before realizing the problem. It took him Prosper show - yes, I gave him a name. My mother did say it was bad luck before birth (sorry, the outbreak), but I do not know why I had before baptizing very difficult to attach myself. Since I can call, I'm already much more maternal with him - in short, it took me to get out of its bag for Prosper to consent to stop saying, laughing: "you do not like omelets? Peter, who is a lawyer, he noted that he had no right to refuse a patient - in this case, me - until you have at least listened. The doctor took us for two crazy and he wanted us out, when I suggested a simple solution.
"Get a radio in my gut: spawning has certainly left scars that prove that Prosper is my egg" - Freudian slip: I almost said my son. And I asked myself: If it was a girl? Will I have to find a new name? Well, we'll see on ultrasound.
The idea was chosen: here I am on the radiologist's table, held his stomach with both hands to force laughing. It annoys me, I feel it bothers me. I'll finish it by sticking a slap, it will pass the urge to cackle at that idiot!
No, sir, is not that the chickens that lay eggs!!

I was right, there is a problem with my intestines. The whole team is piously Obstetrics examined my radio, silence itself is religious. Dr. feverishly wipes his glasses with the hem of her gown; internal guard eat his pencil, and fewer of the radiologist.
"You've never done more tests? You are followed by a gynecologist? "
what he thinks? I'm a big girl for almost fifteen years. I too, like all my buddies, was initiated into the joys of smears and breast kneading. But no, everything has always been normal, thank you.
"In fact, it's true that your doctor could not notice anything, you have an anomaly very discreet, but ... It's amazing, I do not think you ever seen anything like it. "
Well, he'll drop his scoop? What is the info on my uterus that kills?
"In reality, you'll laugh (I m'esclaffe already), your uterus and your gut com-mu-they communicate! There is a kind of small airlock that connects them, and ... The egg must have developed there, before leaving through natural when it became too big. Your egg is in fact exactly like a hen's egg, an egg that has hardened. "They watch me all
like a Zara sweater one day sales. I do not like the greedy glimmer in the depths of their eyes.
Peter brings them back to earth, far from their dreams of vivisection.
"Well, actually, what can you do? You lend an incubator? "
Not only do they lend it to us, but I believe we have solved our problem ... It definitely keeps the party for a breeding season in hospital.


Prosper grows constantly. He has a scarf and a hat for premature keep warm, and since I've drawn him a smile, he seems at ease in the artificial light of the incubator.
So on purely medical, everything is going pretty well. After some hesitation, the temperature was set at 38 degrees 5 - it would seem that an egg may need more heat than a normal human being. The incubator is reinforced plastic, Prosper is well protected. The neonatal nurses at the center have been very few days to get used to, but they are very professional, she spoke and handle like other babies. There are many one who told me the first time with a sigh: "My poor child! "But before my bewildered air, she realized that I was quite happy to replace nine months pregnant with a brooding remotely without any hassle or discomfort. Since then, I discern instead a touch of envy in her eyes, she gave birth three times ...


But already, that, that I have a real problem. Even if I head to the girls who are pregnant and nausea and freak out like crazy before the episiotomy, I confess that I ask myself some questions. Am I a real woman, I have not heard the agony of the stirrups? Will I be a mother? Prosper will be there my child or that of the incubator? Will it be like ducklings, following the first one they perceive to be out of the egg? In fact, if he says mom to monitoring, it will annoy me a tad ...
And amidst all these existential questions, I have hit the media, such as African locusts on the field. I thought it would leak, despite assurances from the director of the hospital and from there to see Prosper make the cover of Paris Match!
"A human egg at the Salpetriere! Exclusive: Confessions of the hen-wife! "I had to swear to my mother that I had not told this guy she did eat corn with my brothers and me. Since the solicitations have not stopped, I put dark glasses on Prosper. Same interview I was offered to pose nude, but they were disappointed to see that I had no tail.
Finally, despite the absence of pregnancy, I feel very tired. Can we make an egg-blues?


I was contacted by the chairman of the National Ethics Committee. It seems they want to do a session on my case, which raised "questions of new and fascinating to the human spirit. "I worry a little.


I had reason to worry. Basically, if I followed everything - and given the jargon used by these brave people is not won - the question is what will do in a lot of situations I had never considered, but now will prevent me from sleeping until they hatch. Prosper is it humane, he who was not born in the usual way? Whoever Prosper break by accident or not he would commit murder? If other situations arise, he will spread the use of the incubator, or attempt to reintroduce the egg in the uterus so that the child is born "more natural"? Should we detect at birth in girls the anomaly in my guts? This anomaly may justify a therapeutic abortion? The
oviparity Is the solution for some infertile couples ?!!!!
We swim in delirium, there. I have not chosen to be oviparous! And anyway, the longer it goes, the more I find it very well. First, because it lets me work until birth without asking any questions. Secondly, because if I did not want to keep Prosper, I could have simply let it fall into the bowl, and it was done. I think what bothers these people, they will confess and certainly not is that I'm probably the first woman to expect a baby without it changes more than that my life without it makes me sick, without any upheaval. The hen, she will fuck, because she has nothing of a mater dolorosa ... It seems that the Vatican j'inquiète. Will I be excommunicated?


He moved!! That's today! Four months and dust ... The egg is as big as a watermelon. Peter bought a camcorder for the occasion. I wonder how he goes out, I hope he does not spout.


The outbreak was a success. But Pierre is a little disappointed, a shell was stuck on the lens, the film is partially obscured. Finally, it is clear Prosper went out of its shell by typing with his skull. He has a small bump on the top of the head, the doctor thinks it will go away. Otherwise, tough luck, it will give him the air of an intellectual high brow.
Finally, everyone is reassured: Prosper is a normal baby, with everything you need where you need it. The radiologist wanted to pass it to the pot - so to speak - to check status its viscera, and he obviously does not keep her mother on that front. Finally, as I pointed out to nurses who have a good laugh, because it's a boy, otherwise I would have a bit surprised.
Obviously, I do not have masses of milk, but good, the formula is not for dogs. My little chick did not look at all traumatized by his funny production, and as I have no pound to lose, I think in terms of the mood of the mother, everybody wins.
The only problem will be to keep some anonymity, I think we will move.

Can You Book A Flight Without Paying

here ...

... This unbearable suspense.

No, I'm not a pigeon.

Here are some miscellaneous texts, some thoughts more or less (a) varied, some traces of what goes through my cortex deep layers of the days when I sometimes allowed to wander the fingers (mine? Who knows ) on my keyboard.

Happy reading and good luck.

How Long Should I Be On Superpump 250

Vie Parisienne

Passersby do not give me the alms of their tired eyes. Sometimes their eye glides over my complexion dirty like a mud puddle, something smooth and nothing disgusting about what not to invite to linger. I'm afraid; this idea of satisfaction fills me stupid. Because I'm stupid, as they like to repeat it all to me. It is true that my attitudes are horror comics when they start to chase me.
"It is really too stupid! "It
joke, I play. They also pretend, they would do well to really get me pissed. Sometimes I get stones. One of them got punctured the eye. I do not blame them. It makes me interesting, it reinforces my power of repulsion, more powerful, more durable than all the seductions of Venus in pristine mules netted. They are resplendent with color primitive and brutal: eye cobalt, orange hair, nails dregs of wine. I'm staying forever gray, fade into the heady absorption of concrete everlasting. I am clear in this show where I bang as obscene graffiti on the facade of a bridge club. That's one of those seductive nymphets pass near me. It saves me the end of his New Balance, her pout Pearl - pink love # 12 - disgusted rather than sulking. I chierais him well on the head just for the pleasure of hearing his little cries of wet pussy, nice baptism. She walks away, his buttocks swaying from side to side in an ellipse which wants troubling. That does not bother me, can not do anything to me. I prefer their quick couplings refined rape of my peers, companions erased as I delivered my desires on the sidewalk that haunt us together.
You say to yourself what being foul. You're right, I am to you a kind of monster. You make me feel pretty. What pleasure I bring you: disgust and fear no imminent danger! I like to think that you are happy with me. And I do not think I'm to be pitied. A fried moldy, water a gutter ... I'm good. I am the great parasite, jaded as a god and I am the white spots on the clean sheet, I am the power in the bun. But I'm also what is weaker and more unknown. I probably die in silence, crushed under the wheel of a car, spread viscera for the first time red to gray.
I am a pigeon. And royally, I fuck you.