/lit/ - Literature

Yes, he produced thirty-three bushels this October and twenty more to come. Long blade rose to rank over hand and drop of sweat. The painting shined as if it was pastel and not oil. Fifty degrees and rising, stakes that ran for miles. They winked in the heat and gave way their roots to electrolyzed Martian green-fodder, 60 fossil a kilogram. The reactors built pre-singularity became obsolete in fewer years than it took to acclimatize the Blagovich sector. Two-dozen strike teams were incinerated in less than a millisecond, fusion-wave technology never encountered since. The herd shifted West and the suns targeted the paddock center until the goats moved to the edge of the corral. Their shadows danced and fought, trippling Donimer's yield. He looked at the rapid horny animals, put out his Titan Frosty and started for the outhouse. He was brewing an enourmous shit from his first wive's birthday dinner and he intended to enjoy every second. Breaks were few and far between, usually a Frosty and a tart chew of cud, 4 times a day, no contact. This he could tolerate, if only for occaisional trip to the vacubatory. He loved his wife for that.