No. 1

Prologue The fate of the Renoka race lays in the hands of two infant twins... "Please, help!"

And from not wanting to say a word...

They're talking about death on the radio again.

I know where I want to live when I grow up.

Vibrations scuttle into the rough lines of a parched field. Each erect string aches under a silver staccato – the sun’s improbable densities tap wells that never knew their maker;

Thick black sacks flow inwardly, spewing translucent mallets; their heads to the floor like flickering monks, humming ordinate sighs. Thick mouths stain the skies with reds-to-greens-to-blues.

Innate like a polyester rug, cold red ruptures from the character’s spleen and swaths across an impotent knife. The man behind the stage wall struggles to find breath,