Wedding Dance To Mount And Blade Warband

PATIENT ZERO (XIII)

Sometimes changes regular arrive and slowly, like drops of serum on the arm of a terminally ill patient.

Other times they are a tornado, an avalanche that changes everything, and that prevents us from discourse, much less respond to its consequences.

Mila entered his bedroom trying not to damage the strange package with no weight given to him by the clueless gardener on behalf of his father. For its lightness, must be extremely fragile. After very carefully unwrap it, only had a box in his hand completely empty white cardboard. On one side he found the faded imprint of a stamp could still read Tomelloso Senior Residence . It seemed one of those boxes that were used in some institutions for avoiding medication containing trademarks. Neither the package nor the seal or the inscription nor the people had any meaning for her, so I left it on the bedside table and, without the presence of those attending the vigil, he slept, his dreams were waiting, impatient.

**********

Something happened in the yard, the biggest came and went from one place to another, Fear was a light sleeper. As it took to get to the garage, a police officer had been planted at the gate preventing entry to members of the family and service. Whatever it was, had happened in the gardener's shack, which along with storage and garage, made up the huge vessel of a plant located a few meters of the mansion. The rounded up to the window of Evaristo and saw him there, right there: they had impaled the head between the bars of the gate, leaving the ears in the course of the maneuver. It seemed alive, but unconscious. A policeman tried to remove there and the other advised him to wait for firefighters, who apparently were on their way.

From his position, Fear could be seen inside the house very poor fielder, dirt, and a single ornament on the wall nailed with four pins: polaroid photo of a cemetery looked like the pictures that I had seen in a book of Collioure cemetery, the place where they buried Antonio Machado, was curious to remember the place, considering the contempt he felt for the poems of this kind.

Fear not know why, but he knew that had to be done with photography.

Sometimes changes come to us with the blaring music of a parade marching by our house.

Other times they come in a box empty.

© Biedermann & Francis P.

Woman Strangling A Man Vedios

smoke in the bottle in the Gothic Week

Dear, next Sunday, at 17:00, I'll be talking with my friend Fernando Marías
about smoke in the bottle ,

part of the events taking place from modern Gothic Week Madrid (Parque del Retiro, Casa de Vacas)

If you want to join the chat, we are happy to have you with us.

Where Can I Purchase Maxine Clipart

The Man Who Killed Durruti


Dear Francis, I break my silence, you know what I'm caught up to the end of the month "to celebrate the reissue of The Man Who Killed Durruti , the first novel of our brother Pedro de Paz. I say, and point

celebrate because we are talking about a novel that, by our absurd vicissitudes of publishing scene, has long been out of print, despite having been unanimously acclaimed by the critics, out of reach for many readers who eagerly wanted to access it.

I leave you with some lines drawn on the work of the author's website: Synopsis

Barcelona, \u200b\u200b1937. The commander Fernández Durán, a former member of the oversight body of the security police commander and current Republican Army during the English civil war, is required by his superiors to a curious mission: to investigate the mysterious circumstances surrounding the death of Buenaventura Durruti, leader anarchist who died in the front of the Ciudad Universitaria de Madrid in November 1936. To It moved to the capital in the company of his aide, Lieutenant Alcázar where, after a series of vicissitudes, its findings will lead to a surprising conclusion. Author's note

After eight months writing short stories as a training, it emerged, also initially intended as an account of small size. The aspects related to the English Civil War have long fascinated me and so particularly, the figure of Durruti. After two months in which I tried to gather as much documentation as possible about the subject, I sat down to write a short story in which, in fictionalized form, exposed all the theories about death the legendary anarchist, threaded through a story line of police who tried to character as a homage to follow the canons of the genre, in particular, the style developed by Conan Doyle to give life to his famous Sherlock. Once I set to work and because of the huge amount of documents collected and information gathered, just could not stop, thus leading to my first novel (short novel but finally after all). The text was written between the months of November 2002 and February 2003 and presented to the First International Short Story Competition "José Saramago" (2003), built in winning a unanimous decision of the jury. One of the most bizarre and amazing of my life. With my first novel, first introduced me to a literary contest and won. Something you mean, I suppose.

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PATIENT ZERO (XII )

never had been known for their intelligence as Evaristo.

The Magin had given him little more to fix and clean pools gardens if demand levels are low and the owners did not ask the impossible. Also defended decently with messages not too complex gossip tinkering here and there because all the cuts that Mendel's laws had given his mind, he had joined the wrong way into the language. However, Spartan loyalty bordering on obsession, to the late father of Mila has always been unwavering. At the end of the day, if I had a roof over their shelter, a savings and a half sound reasonable age just around the corner was thanks to the efforts of the man whose absence no one wept except the gardener idiot. Still reread with tears in his eyes, night after night, old Marcial Lafuente Estefanía novels with which the Lord taught to read decades ago.

But remember crying and would not be sufficient to pay outstanding bills-well knew, and still had the silly Evaristo something to do with his benefactor before he left for good. The letter had been waiting for years had come as did the man who would arrive the night before she disappeared. In fact, Evaristo spent all those years at the bottom of the canyon, living as if nothing had happened, to fulfill its role as a necessary spring machinery whose function unknown. Passing above the pitying looks of the rich who used him as an overflow of conscience over the visceral disgust, atavistic, he felt for the lady of the house.

And with the letter the very end. Or the beginning of something. Her shyness was not enough to discern effectively.

was not yet noon and already had made the case and put his only suit. The same herringbone suit that gave Mr. Mila when she made her first communion. A lack of proper time had not relocated since then, but years of closet in that house which was home wet had worn to the point that showed every appearance of being very old. And smelled of mothballs.

From the window of the hut Mila noted that the girl was crossing the garden with a slow pace. He carried a book in her hands. That book fucking not taking off for a minute and that, somehow, Evaristo knew that was the key with which she had opened wide the gates of perdition. Then he jumped in and began to rummage in the pocket of the jacket worn.

In fact, it's time.

the cleaner now, with this gesture of stubborn determination that only outline the oligophrenic know, out of the hut and the girl is about dodging the jets of the sprinklers. The apple of his eye, the ceiling of its dark and shameful desires. The zenith of his masturbatory delusions. And by his side he brings the little package wrapped up a quintet of bargains words: "by your father." Then, just before vanishing in the same place that has become, look askance at the upstairs window, the one from which that boy again Fear, observes the scene, and the gardener's face is drawn a face of irrational hatred, crude, barely discernible pathological and perennial stupidity. Grit your teeth until you feel pain in the jaw and into the dugout.

Robina then closing the gate behind him, perhaps, that is a personal account to settle before leaving.

Mila, perhaps surprised, you may terrified of the puzzle, the packet includes cubic stupefied resting on the palm of your hand.

© From the text: Biedermann & Francis P.

Should Diapers Be Used As Punishment

Dream that was very rude

I dreamed that a Guei phoned me and I do not know who he was, but got stuck in one of those situations where it is too late to admit you do not know who the person you're talking about and pretend it is and follow the conversation with the hope of being struck twenty at any time. I was busy and did not want to talk to him, but that poster of The Oatmeal ( click ) there was no cutting. So suddenly a strange force came over me and say, you bastard, ME VALE MADRES everything you're saying. But IMMEDIATELY I felt guilty and asked for forgiveness, said he did not mean that (Haha), she was stressed and "in my days" (though not true) and that in fact what I had in high esteem and that interested me much each of his words. And do not even know who was the cue!

interpretations "? I'm a fucking wimp.

Incidentally, the other day I dreamed of zombie holocaust, and many survivors were final thought: why so crappy zombie holocaust.
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And indeed, had not posted because many days I could not sleep cool, because of a horrible symptom of hepatitis that is itching all over his body. But Jony and sent me to a pulp rather powerful So apart from that it is milder. I'm getting better and say that until I look less yellow. Keep you informed.