RE: :V
05-16-2016, 10:28 AM
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15. is small. Delicate. Markings crisp as cartridge-ink, and a similarly punctuated sans-serif cry. Its prominence in the flock peaked quite a few years ago, and it has since peaceably retired to niches and nooks.
You hadn't paid it much thought in the intervening years, but you glanced at someone's writing yesterday and admired their penmanship. Exchange words with a friend about bygone days and the tk-tk of its beak as it pecks at tails and apexes feels natural as breathing.
Not all that surprising though that it's faded from prominence. Its ideal habitat needs a good mix of ligatures to perch on; counters and apertures to make its nest. The orthography round these parts really isn't suited to it.
Most can, but if they went gallivanting off somewhere they wouldn't be In A Trenchcoat anymore, would they? It's a philosophical debate whether it's the trenchcoat, or the several hundred birds, or the sum of its parts that's most important, and some forefront birds in the field wouldn't mind picking the concept apart at length, 10 spearheading the project most likely.
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16's been slacking off, it seems.
It's a young bird yet, hatched from necessity by 13's latest madcap endeavour. Primarily neck and two tidy rows of zygodactyl feet, 16 the Clerk-lark crawls over furniture all sinuous and grabby-delicate. It knows only two words - "identify" and "heed" - but it knows them in the language of every bird 'neath sun or trench.
It's in charge of calling specific birds - their very birdness - to attention. Sullen and in competition with no shortage of other flashy trenchcreatures, its primary means of locomotion is an unappreciated slink.
At your disorganised work desk, twenty past shoulda-been-home-already, 16's sprawled on a bed of stationery and pointing out the outstanding clientele.
6. 8. 17. 8. 13 and 12, joined at the hip. 18. 8. 17. 6. Jesus. 17.
Only way to shut these assholes up is a change of scenery.
You finish up here for now. 7 croons to a raincloud-beleaguered 1, reminding it of the nice purple of the sunset not twenty minutes ago.
15. is small. Delicate. Markings crisp as cartridge-ink, and a similarly punctuated sans-serif cry. Its prominence in the flock peaked quite a few years ago, and it has since peaceably retired to niches and nooks.
You hadn't paid it much thought in the intervening years, but you glanced at someone's writing yesterday and admired their penmanship. Exchange words with a friend about bygone days and the tk-tk of its beak as it pecks at tails and apexes feels natural as breathing.
Not all that surprising though that it's faded from prominence. Its ideal habitat needs a good mix of ligatures to perch on; counters and apertures to make its nest. The orthography round these parts really isn't suited to it.
(05-11-2016, 09:29 AM)Gimeurcookie Wrote: »Can you all fly? What about the ones that can't?
Most can, but if they went gallivanting off somewhere they wouldn't be In A Trenchcoat anymore, would they? It's a philosophical debate whether it's the trenchcoat, or the several hundred birds, or the sum of its parts that's most important, and some forefront birds in the field wouldn't mind picking the concept apart at length, 10 spearheading the project most likely.
---
16's been slacking off, it seems.
It's a young bird yet, hatched from necessity by 13's latest madcap endeavour. Primarily neck and two tidy rows of zygodactyl feet, 16 the Clerk-lark crawls over furniture all sinuous and grabby-delicate. It knows only two words - "identify" and "heed" - but it knows them in the language of every bird 'neath sun or trench.
It's in charge of calling specific birds - their very birdness - to attention. Sullen and in competition with no shortage of other flashy trenchcreatures, its primary means of locomotion is an unappreciated slink.
At your disorganised work desk, twenty past shoulda-been-home-already, 16's sprawled on a bed of stationery and pointing out the outstanding clientele.
6. 8. 17. 8. 13 and 12, joined at the hip. 18. 8. 17. 6. Jesus. 17.
Only way to shut these assholes up is a change of scenery.
You finish up here for now. 7 croons to a raincloud-beleaguered 1, reminding it of the nice purple of the sunset not twenty minutes ago.
peace to the unsung peace to the martyrs | i'm johnny rotten appleseed
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow