168

It's either something like poopissfucker69killlandords

Or just a dude called Frank

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[-] emizeko@hexbear.net 21 points 2 years ago* (last edited 2 years ago)

Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.

[-] AMBER_BOT@hexbear.net 17 points 2 years ago
[-] emizeko@hexbear.net 20 points 2 years ago* (last edited 2 years ago)
[-] context@hexbear.net 15 points 2 years ago

We do not know how many days passed. The villagers assumed that the man had been shot. Many claimed to have seen his corpse. But finally a visitor came. He was a man from the restaurant. The guard introduced him as assistant manager Marty. Marty spoke to the prisoner with friendly words. Of a terrible misunderstanding. Of regret. For the taco. For his experience at the restaurant. That perhaps some reckoning could be made. Some settling of accounts. Perhaps a ten dollar gift certificate.

[-] coeliacmccarthy@hexbear.net 3 points 2 years ago

i wimpled softly in your mom's flow

this post was submitted on 27 Mar 2024
168 points (100.0% liked)

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