Expensive beer flowed and expensive foam overflowed, merging with an expensive suit and tie to cause, unsurprisingly, a very expensive problem. But that could wait for later. Dyson Rappelling, executive brainiac, father of two-going-on-three, soon to be royally smote, toasted to his fortune. He’d just closed a deal and was about to become very rich.
Something underneath his desk made a “flish” sound. The beer glass made a “kshmslink” sound. Dyson made a “gahelusthckkK” sound, and died.
“I collect books.”
“Oh yeah? What do you collect them for?”
“Of course I know Japanese,” I said. “I installed it ages ago.”
It was Thursday morning and, as usual, I had woken up in the future.
He betrayed the tropes of structure and form that had supported his earlier works, writing stories with no hero nor villain, no resolution, and no chapters; he published novels back to front; he rebelled against intonation and meter; he scoffed to write the sort of one-line paragraph that went, “But he couldn’t have forseen the terrible events that would come the very next morning.” His ultimate act of anarchy was a tale that had no start, no middle, and no
She walked into the room, which was hot. Stuffy. It was hot and stuffy because a small sun shone in the corner, illuminating beams of dust and scorching the upholstery.
A shining carpet of jewel cases and scattered cassette tapes covered the lacquered wooden floor. As the sun sank beyond the distant Tokyo skyline, beams of tangerine light skipped across the ancient plastic and danced upon the walls.
The news rushed through the sewers and swept the rats into hysteria. Rigorous analysis of rigorous surveys, the posters said, implicated the creatures of the murky tunnels in every drain on city resources. “Very ratshunnal as usual”, Bernard grumbled. “I’ll bet their data is all anonymouse.”
To your left is a heavy wooden door, its fine oaken features obscured by iron bars and the glittery aura of magic. From the room beyond, you hear the muffled scuffle of heavy wooden furniture shuffling from place to place, the thumps and flutters of indecisive tomes swapping perches, and the faint but dedicated pound-pound-pound of portraits and paintings migrating from wall to wall.
“Kabros’s Unstoppable Decorator”, the Wizard grumbles. “Haven’t been able to use that room for months.”
it's sabs, like "sobs"