Read Online Kaiju Rising: Age of Monsters by James Swallow, David Annandale, James Lovegrove, Larry Correia, Peter Clines, C.L Werner, Timothy W. Long, J.C. Koch, Natania Barron - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Swallow, David Annandale, James Lovegrove, Larry Correia, Peter Clines, C.L Werner, Timothy W. Long, J.C. Koch, Natania Barron
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anybody. Yeah, there are a hell of a lot more deep-sea expeditions, but they’re not even close. And Diablo? Fuck that guy. There’s no separate-but-equal, not during the pharaoh times, not during Jim Crow, not now.
But here’s what there is: Day of the Demigods .
Warner Brother’s put it out after they rebuilt. It opened last night at midnight, and grossed 58 million on a Thursday night opening, which shatters every record imaginable. It’s supposed to be epic, inventive, using both actual footage and CGI. The reviews say it’s the most terrifying film every created. They didn’t make it all cheesy, rah-rah America, but darker, more truthful, terrorism in the form of prehistoric gods who strike, and then disappear, ready for vengeance.
So yeah, I’m a big fucking deal.
Don’t doubt a house call from Gema any minute, to which she can see the back of this fucking hand. I’m the most famous creature to ever live. I’m Mohammad and Kanye rolled into a rock-hard body, sold for $7.99 at every Wal-Mart across the world. Yes, I still masturbate to my own reflection. I still hate being around others. I still wish my mom wasn’t a whore. But when I can’t sleep at night, I scroll through the tabloids, through my picture, through the stories about survivors of my attack, blurbs about the movie, all of which are testimony to my greatness, and I feel almost good enough to close my eyes and not apologize for ever being born.
The Lighthouse Keeper of Kurohaka Island
Kane Gilmour
The gray light of the morning merged with the steel color of the waves, giving Shinobi the feeling he was being tossed around in the air. He stood at the bow of the freighter, his young hands gripping the rail tightly—he’d been told and he remembered, ‘one hand for yourself and one hand for the ship, at all times’—and he peered into the murky shades of concrete that filled the sky and the sea. He couldn’t determine where one began and the other ended.
Thick fog shrouded everything, and his one thought over and over was to wonder where all the brilliant blue had gone. From his home in Wakkanai, at the northern tip of Japan, the sea was always blue, even on stormy days. But here, in the no man’s land twenty miles northeast of Hokkaido, everything looked hostile to the boy. But then, everything in the world now looked that way.
“Shinobi,” he heard his father’s abrupt voice from behind him. Mindful to keep one hand on the damp railing, as the massive freighter bounced in the invisible troughs of the cold waves, he turned to see his father approaching him from the starboard side of the ship. “Come inside. We are nearly there.”
Shinobi walked along the railing, moving hand over hand, lest some rogue wave slap the big ship and send him headlong into a never-ending drop through the gray moisture. “Almost where, Father? I’ve checked the maps. There’s nothing here.”
His father, a stern man named Jiro, remained quiet until Shinobi reached him along the rail, skirting the massive multi-colored metal containers that filled the center of the ship’s broad foredeck. When Shinobi looked up at his father, he realized the man was not simply waiting for him or being his typical quiet self, but rather he was peering intently past the bow of the ship and into the gloom.
Shinobi knew to stay still and be quiet. His father was either deep in thought or looking for something in the fog. The man would speak when he was ready to, and not before. With nothing else to do, besides hold the railing, Shinobi studied his father’s face. He quickly determined that the man was actually looking for something in the thick mist that shrouded the ship. He was just about to turn, when his father spoke.
“There,” the man pointed past the bow. “Kurohaka Island.”
Shinobi turned and momentarily let his hand drop from the railing in surprise. In a part of the Sea of Okhotsk he knew to be empty of any spit of land, a jagged dark shape
But here’s what there is: Day of the Demigods .
Warner Brother’s put it out after they rebuilt. It opened last night at midnight, and grossed 58 million on a Thursday night opening, which shatters every record imaginable. It’s supposed to be epic, inventive, using both actual footage and CGI. The reviews say it’s the most terrifying film every created. They didn’t make it all cheesy, rah-rah America, but darker, more truthful, terrorism in the form of prehistoric gods who strike, and then disappear, ready for vengeance.
So yeah, I’m a big fucking deal.
Don’t doubt a house call from Gema any minute, to which she can see the back of this fucking hand. I’m the most famous creature to ever live. I’m Mohammad and Kanye rolled into a rock-hard body, sold for $7.99 at every Wal-Mart across the world. Yes, I still masturbate to my own reflection. I still hate being around others. I still wish my mom wasn’t a whore. But when I can’t sleep at night, I scroll through the tabloids, through my picture, through the stories about survivors of my attack, blurbs about the movie, all of which are testimony to my greatness, and I feel almost good enough to close my eyes and not apologize for ever being born.
The Lighthouse Keeper of Kurohaka Island
Kane Gilmour
The gray light of the morning merged with the steel color of the waves, giving Shinobi the feeling he was being tossed around in the air. He stood at the bow of the freighter, his young hands gripping the rail tightly—he’d been told and he remembered, ‘one hand for yourself and one hand for the ship, at all times’—and he peered into the murky shades of concrete that filled the sky and the sea. He couldn’t determine where one began and the other ended.
Thick fog shrouded everything, and his one thought over and over was to wonder where all the brilliant blue had gone. From his home in Wakkanai, at the northern tip of Japan, the sea was always blue, even on stormy days. But here, in the no man’s land twenty miles northeast of Hokkaido, everything looked hostile to the boy. But then, everything in the world now looked that way.
“Shinobi,” he heard his father’s abrupt voice from behind him. Mindful to keep one hand on the damp railing, as the massive freighter bounced in the invisible troughs of the cold waves, he turned to see his father approaching him from the starboard side of the ship. “Come inside. We are nearly there.”
Shinobi walked along the railing, moving hand over hand, lest some rogue wave slap the big ship and send him headlong into a never-ending drop through the gray moisture. “Almost where, Father? I’ve checked the maps. There’s nothing here.”
His father, a stern man named Jiro, remained quiet until Shinobi reached him along the rail, skirting the massive multi-colored metal containers that filled the center of the ship’s broad foredeck. When Shinobi looked up at his father, he realized the man was not simply waiting for him or being his typical quiet self, but rather he was peering intently past the bow of the ship and into the gloom.
Shinobi knew to stay still and be quiet. His father was either deep in thought or looking for something in the fog. The man would speak when he was ready to, and not before. With nothing else to do, besides hold the railing, Shinobi studied his father’s face. He quickly determined that the man was actually looking for something in the thick mist that shrouded the ship. He was just about to turn, when his father spoke.
“There,” the man pointed past the bow. “Kurohaka Island.”
Shinobi turned and momentarily let his hand drop from the railing in surprise. In a part of the Sea of Okhotsk he knew to be empty of any spit of land, a jagged dark shape
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