Accidental Memory in the Case of Death

Science Fiction & Fantasy, Fantasy
Cover of the book Accidental Memory in the Case of Death by derryere, derryere
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Author: derryere ISBN: 9780463430873
Publisher: derryere Publication: April 28, 2018
Imprint: Smashwords Edition Language: English
Author: derryere
ISBN: 9780463430873
Publisher: derryere
Publication: April 28, 2018
Imprint: Smashwords Edition
Language: English

Anthony slowly turns back to the rock. He makes a bit of a show of rolling his shoulders, of lacing his fingers and stretching his arms out—cracking the joints—then shaking them out, sniffing twice as he goes.

Behind him that same patronising huff sounds, and he sucks in an irked hiss.

“Silence,” he throws over his shoulder. Then, in not much more than a mutter as he faces the crumbling hilt-like thing again, “peon.”

He digs in a heel, takes on the stance, and curls two hands around as much of the metal he can get at. It’s rusty and flakes with bits of wiring, odd elements and whatever else went in it, crunching and crumbling a bit in his grip. He gives it a trying shake of a movement and is surprised at how loose it feels. Easy, he thinks, and pulls.

Nothing. The thing won’t even budge.

“Oh yeah,” Emory comments from behind. “Real impressive there, your highness.”

Anthony sighs, loudly, and realigns to the rock. “Shut up,” he says, and tries again. The guy laughs and replies to this, but the beginning of the sentence—whatever the word is, the syllable—is suddenly lost in a rushing whoosh.

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Anthony slowly turns back to the rock. He makes a bit of a show of rolling his shoulders, of lacing his fingers and stretching his arms out—cracking the joints—then shaking them out, sniffing twice as he goes.

Behind him that same patronising huff sounds, and he sucks in an irked hiss.

“Silence,” he throws over his shoulder. Then, in not much more than a mutter as he faces the crumbling hilt-like thing again, “peon.”

He digs in a heel, takes on the stance, and curls two hands around as much of the metal he can get at. It’s rusty and flakes with bits of wiring, odd elements and whatever else went in it, crunching and crumbling a bit in his grip. He gives it a trying shake of a movement and is surprised at how loose it feels. Easy, he thinks, and pulls.

Nothing. The thing won’t even budge.

“Oh yeah,” Emory comments from behind. “Real impressive there, your highness.”

Anthony sighs, loudly, and realigns to the rock. “Shut up,” he says, and tries again. The guy laughs and replies to this, but the beginning of the sentence—whatever the word is, the syllable—is suddenly lost in a rushing whoosh.

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