e-book Jewel of the Suns Blood Destiny

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When the opportunity landed in his lap, he convinced her it was the only way to free them. That is, until they learned the rest of the story. Read more Read less. To get the free app, enter mobile phone number. See all free Kindle reading apps.

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Don't have a Kindle? No customer reviews. Share your thoughts with other customers. To be punk without the needles. To be punk without the meds. My soft lips pressed against the microphone one day and I felt nothing. Fixed my dumb stare straight across an ocean of bodies who wanted to fuck everything, myself included, each other. But I found myself bored with fame.

Singing the same old songs to the same demented crowd. Even nudity gets dull. You and I never wanted to be goddesses of any underworld. We never wanted gutter punks to scream our names. She woke up in the middle of the night gasping for air. She had forgotten how to breathe. Poor thing. One hour sleeps. Foodless days. But Lex was still Lex.

Performed exquisitely. Fans by the handful. All was good onstage. Backstage was hell.

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Her manager said, Lex, you are dead, you are queen of your underworld. One day she almost died. Crowd surfed into a hole of stupid bodies. Cracked her head in two. Cried with primal gratitude. Junkie Wife by Alexis Rhone Fancher. By using colloquial language laced with blunt, in-your-face imagery, Fancher successfully portrays a set of multifaceted characters that, for the most part, remain anonymous. Nowhere in Junkie Wife is there an excess of words. Each line is intentional, and takes the reader on a fast-paced downward spiral of self-destruction.

Junkie Wife is as addicting as it is honest. But before there was Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg, there was Charles Babbage, the inventor of the first mechanical computer. In addition to drawing parallels between a wide range of topics, Neil Aitken uses a variety of literary techniques to further solidify his idea that art and science, religion and culture, are each mechanisms through which man creates meaning out of the chaos of the universe.

By using two different columns that can be read both independently, and as two pieces of a whole, Aitken reiterates the crucial emotional and physical space technology has overtaken in our modern world.

Starseeds of libra

A thin man, bathed in unperturbed night, Walks across a bridge Spanning a river older than time He has gray eyes Like the sky Over the ocean After a storm has only just passed And he walks, as I watch, hand in hand With a boundless void in a bright sundress And he smiles with his slightly crooked teeth And his slightly too-large nose As he tucks his arm around her so knowingly And it pains me to watch but I cannot look away As he is sucked in by the void And I know in that instant that it is too late But is the void to blame?

If it only wished to be near the people with the kind gray eyes Is the void to blame? If it warned him of the danger long before this moment Is the void to blame? He was thin, with gray eyes set in tanned smile lines And his nose with that slight hook that he so hated And the void so loved And his teeth, once straight, just perfectly crooked I set his face in my memory I set it there to stay forever To commemorate what happened And now, because the tragedy has already passed, I can pull my eyes from the bridge And scanning the indolent river My eyes alight on each pair of stars That are commuters rushing home after a too-long day.

In the morning the tide comes in And sweeps us away And we let it We let it carry us around the world And back again when the sandwiches are ready We bathe in the water that has touched all mankind And returned lovingly to tell the tale We are one with it all Because it allows us to be We are thankful. She enjoys creative expression of all kinds and her fiction and poetry can be found in Junto, Foliate Oak, Cardinal Sins, and more. I dwelled in that dark, as small as I could for one having such an ancient heart— a mighty drum, drum.

Then, in some slip of day, I drew MY rage. Allowed myself to step into BIG. Up from small. So you take your rifle and scare your neighbor away but he keeps coming back because he really is that goddamn thirsty and his house has no running water and—you get the point. As the migra escorted you outside you felt a little infamous among hundreds of women with blisters on their hands.

Exiled for working without permission from Uncle Sam. Once again in TJ, where it all began.


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La migra asks you and your girlfriends your names. Carmela suggests you all give fake ones. You take it further and suggest celebrities. You pay a coyote to guide you home to the glasses factory and the East L. Deported on a Friday night.

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Spent the weekend in Mexico. Crossed the crumbling desert on Sunday. Showed up to work promptly on Monday. The lawlessness of the river runs through my veins. My daughter asks, who do you miss? I say, I never was too close to anybody, but I remember the butcher and his son, who raped me. One without the arrogance of her green eyes, glazed. To be punk without the needles. To be punk without the meds. My soft lips pressed against the microphone one day and I felt nothing.

Fixed my dumb stare straight across an ocean of bodies who wanted to fuck everything, myself included, each other. But I found myself bored with fame.

Singing the same old songs to the same demented crowd. Even nudity gets dull. You and I never wanted to be goddesses of any underworld. We never wanted gutter punks to scream our names. She woke up in the middle of the night gasping for air. She had forgotten how to breathe. Poor thing. One hour sleeps.

Foodless days. But Lex was still Lex. Performed exquisitely. Fans by the handful.

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All was good onstage. Backstage was hell. Her manager said, Lex, you are dead, you are queen of your underworld. One day she almost died. Crowd surfed into a hole of stupid bodies. Cracked her head in two.

Cried with primal gratitude. Junkie Wife by Alexis Rhone Fancher. By using colloquial language laced with blunt, in-your-face imagery, Fancher successfully portrays a set of multifaceted characters that, for the most part, remain anonymous.