A Cryme of Crows

Titicaca of them olfactory symptoms crept a swag latex down the grime. Over moons and planets she wandered always stuck in the wavering sand. It blew a way forward unknown but shown in every crystal corner of that salid land. Evelin Bones was their name. Of colour of matchsticks of maze, leapt the brass handle. 

Over the noontide gaze of the sun, soleil of Melissandra. Clemmed up and shut. Ebony tree knows of cloud lands, it is a saint lesser known. Keeping in a small element hand of retch, he flyered the main classes to Xybitol. Ever flustered and shamed of the loose by which they were born. Menacing prowess lay clowned like a fish in a digger. Rachael Swift. Clemency ties with a brotherhood and over-encompassing angels. Quite the dime, of course. 

Wrapped in salad leaves the small body unfurled as a fern feather. Together-together. Next came her bounty. It was on her head by proclamation of Crispin Banes. 

"Equip it with fire!", solace droned,

"Bout of cackle-hour, that's how you get!"

Maybe it was only a factory, a rabble of scours. But she wept for him in pure daylight. Nevertheless a picture of her lay under his plaffed pillow. The Cryme was olfactory. Pure Magica. 

2014