Because to huddle so close to another player in this game is to set yourself up for death, for a life of relying on strangers to protect you from a weapon they never see coming. I’m too old to always be at the top of the leaderboard.
Chekhov, in certain ways, would be proud of the officer. I’m shot, in a careless burst, several times. Lying on the ground, looking up, it occurs to me that Joyce was right: “You could die just the same on a sunny day.” I stare into the sun and let it burn my retinas past repair.
You will need to rapidly press 1 and 2 to milk the cow’s teats. Alternate between pressing 1 and 2 until the timer runs out. Once the timer runs out, Henry will look at the bucket and say I TUGGED AS HARD AS I COULD, BUT NO MILK CAME OUT! It doesn’t matter which cow you milk or how many times you press 1 and 2, this is the only possible outcome.
Miracles creep over the land. I have seen cannonballs halt in midair and fly back into cannon mouths. I have seen a boy who runs atop clouds. I have seen the night sky replaced with orange fire.
I waxed a valenced enemy to ones like these, mawkish and mutant, I shot them
bodiless, a bunch of vapors in the cool. So it continued: new raptors, ghost bricks,
a face on four stems.
We think video games are literature, and so why shouldn't there be literature about video games? That's the question we're hoping to answer here. Read more.
