A Painting of Mt. Vesuvius Erupting, or a Mountain Blowing Up

21 Oct

Thomas Moran , an artist of the Hudson River School, when asked would always state he was born on the twelfth of January in the year 1837.
The official records tell a different story, however, and place his birth to be either the twelfth or twentieth of February of that same year.

Bring the freshest of waters to a gentle boil in a samurai pot.

“I told you never to come,” she whispered with a bread knife.

“But I know all about the cripple who fled the connecting door, and threw the turpentine all over your painting,” Grant said to the suddenly closed door.

“It is what I deserved the work was of inferior Octavian origins, it was his official statement as to the quality of my painting,” she yelled at the closed door.

Grant just stood there he could not speak, for he had not a clue as to what to say to that.

Allow water to cool slightly and then pour over bag of Sun Chai Tea.

The dean will laugh me out of one-hundred percent of my staff Dr. Garrett thought to himself. “I’m afraid I’ll have no experiments to conduct, and all this after so many were devoted to the project.”

Steep two to four minutes to capture the full taste.

“It has been proven once again that an isolated man will create his own mental Carpathians,” Dr. Kadot proclaimed form his pulpit. “So what if my laboratory was out on a street corner, the specifications were followed.”

His fellow scientists were dwarfed and stunned that his data held true even in such an accelerator, the worlds largest had disappeared into darkness just after his final experiment had been calibrated.

Over steeping brings out bitterness from tannin, a natural part of tea.

She stood silently for a moment, heard shuffling noises, and walked four blocks into a condemned loft building. Seventy percent of her stopped before the fourth block, and thirty percent of her remained with the pseudos in the dead-end.

The shadow merged with an obscene hump, a rag of clothing, no shoes, its face a nightmare beaded and crimson, and it smiled without teeth, without lips. The door behind Helen slammed shut.

“There’s no keeping secrets in a deserted building,” the thing said with many voices all at once.”

Without saying a word she surveyed the empty room. It was just her and thing of shadow.

“You went too far this time, the old ways were good enough for journeys to the outlay systems.”

Oliver Cromwell was buried in 1658, in 1660 he was disinterred, and his head removed, three hundred years later it would be properly buried again. It’s exact location forever a mystery.

The oral pornography of the succubus, gorgeous creature, with her lizard eyes dives straight into the abyss darkness and grabs Helen, lifting her shrieking, twelve stories straight up, Screams fill the air, crashes can be heard on the roof, cloven feet, her image finally like glass shattering down to the street below along with flesh and viscera.

The fire was so diamond-perfect in all directions, there was no chance to escape. The flames shot up like uncanny racehorse spikes circling its forehead, its blue-black blood dripping slowly down mingling with corneal fluid. The thing flails around screaming as it sinks into the void of thick green and brown spattering pools of acid and asphalt, smoking pits. Stampeding pedestrians running on the wheel of slaughter topple towards him as he crouches with the defiance of a rodeo rider.

His arms came up violently shaking in the air, she was gone, and he was denied, again. A wave of such helplessness descended upon him, and he barked the king of hoarse laughter as he fell down paralyzed by the joke a gorged night doorman had told him.

According to Danascene, an Italian astronomer, “a laugh with a pronounced “ee” vowel sound is the laugh of a hopeless man.”

When the door opened she should have approached. The man stared from his comfortable position, his legs, thick and doughy, his cough wheezing shapeless protoplasmic trouble, arms deeply tanned, and his head grotesque. Enough is enough he thought he was the Monsignor and he needed his sleep.

In 1965 the Vatican had to prevent St. Francis Xavier’s severed arm from being put on display in a New Jersey department store.

“Dug-on haus you dinikin, du-oh.” Grace said to her sister.

“Snup-aduh ah-wee die-dipana, dihabana,” Virginia replied.

She stood on the corner of Fourteenth Street wearing a halter top and blue jeans. Screams filled the air as arms of bearded Jesus Freaks sang a hysterical chorus of “Jesus Never Smiled in the Bible.”

She stood behind herself staring her head dripping blood, no it was red paint. Holding her paintbrush as if it was a sword applying the final bulging eyes to the singing men, adding a chain of silver around the leader’s neck, then darkening his face, so it had just the proper tone. She stepped back finished hands at her side.

“It was all for the best the cripple was right, it was garbage before, but now it’s just right.”

“So your finished, open the door, I have to see.”

“No, your eyes couldn’t handle such a sight.”

“At least tell me what it’s called?”

“Blood of St. Janiarius 1944.”


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