Harley traces a finger down the overhang of her upmost breast and wonders if what he's feeling here could be the opposite of an out-of-body experience. He hears this voice that sounds uncomfortably like Fitzmaurice: Give it up, Harley, we know you're in there. And then a second voice played by his all-time favorite, James Earl Jones, shouting: No way you miserable swine -- you'll just have to blast me out!
Sad to say, this is what happens.
CNN comes on with a bulletin. Veronica's been giving the tube no attention but still she knows the instant it breaks because Harley's breath catches and his pulse spikes radically.
Flashes of light, they're saying. Reports of gunfire in and around Baghdad.
Stand by.
Eastgate
Fiction Nonfiction
Poetry Hypertext
Storyspace Tinderbox
HypertextNow Order