Vulgaris Survivalist: Sturgeon Face by BarnyardInd
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Vulgaris Survivalist: Sturgeon Face by 


The world is on fire. Ending. I can see the flames devouring the mountains over the top of a BUILDING. Ash falls with ease, choosing its resting place with grace. I walk. There is a ConveniencE stOre. Pond with a stream, Bridge Of Wood to reach the other side. An oak looms large, shedding its leaves in waves of crimson and golden yellow. It is fall here, the kind of fall where you can wear a light jacket and scarf, walk the paveMENT while a warm breeze rustles the leaves at your feet. There are stUrgeon in the pond, white, RuSSian, one foot to three. The air looks golden today, you can see every beam of light from the sun, living solely to court the rippling surface of the water. The store is of a large cross beam construction, the porch is worn with two rocking chairs and a small table on it. There are two small steps. The screen on the door has holes in it, not many, but a pristine few. The door has an old fashioned bell whiCh tinkles gleefully at you as you enter. There is a round table made of wood, there are no products for sale. The proprietor is native American, the loNely soul of the conVenience store. He is resting his elbows on a bar counter, head hung low, he waits alone for the future to become the present, the bell makes him look up. He has no American spirit blues, he has no AmeriCAN spirits. The bell jingles merrily in the face of apocalypse as I step outside to watch the world burn. There is a package to the left of the door. I pick it up. There are American spirit browns in it. The bell jingles merrily in the face of apocAlypse as I reEnter to inquire about purchasing the American spirit browns. The small convenience store is crammed full with people in fall sweaters, driNking and chaTTing. There must be a fire somewhere to make light which looks like this, smells of burning pine. I don’t know any of them. The wise proprietor of the CONVENience store walks up to me smiling. He laughs pulling out a roll of money. Handing me some he pays ME to take the cigarettes and says to run down the StrEet and get some sandwiches for him and his friends, he will owe me lunch for this, he says. The bell jingles merrily in the faCe of apocalypse. I step outside, the world is on fire. The air is golden and crisp, I can see every beam of the sun Whose life is to run on the smooth surface of the water. The heels of my boots reverberate back to my ear as I cross the wooden bridge. The fire has reached the city, it screams upward, I can see it licking the edges of the atmOsphere. I walk the concrete, a light jacket, scarf, knit gloves. A warm breeze rustles the oaks crimson and yellow leaves at my fEEt.

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