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Electrochemistry
Shivers
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This is not what that Personal Brand Strategist of yours promised. No one even knows that you're paying for this re-conceptualization! Go and have a word with him. Find out what's going on.
Conversation · Horseback Monument
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Something with great kinetic energy seems to have impacted the cuirass... around where the 'heart' is. A bullet?
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"Okay..." He cleans his glasses before looking up. "I can't see it. But I'll take your word for it."
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"Well... Martinaise is riddled with bullet holes. This place saw a lot of action during the Revolution. But the statue is recently renovated -- so maybe a joke? Target practice? Or a political statement?"
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"If we connect every bullet hole in Martinaise to the murder, we'll get an overwhelming amount of loose threads..." He takes his notebook out. "But then again, our guy was shot. And that hole would be recent."
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He takes a note. "It's not completely tangential -- at least worth noting down. I wouldn't hold my breath, though."
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The king stands high above you, surveying the bay. Mute and indifferent to your sightings.
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"If we connect every bullet hole in Martinaise to the murder, we'll get an overwhelming amount of loose threads..." He takes his notebook out. "But then again, we don't really know what we're dealing with here, so..."
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"Why not?" He shrugs. "What this shows us is guns aren't too uncommon here. And people still shoot them. Sometimes at kings." He takes a note in his notebook.
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Look at the re-conceptualization.
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The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so under the brilliant sunlight. The doom crier in the centre waits to be swallowed by the bright sky, his cardboard omen flapping in the wind like live bait...
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The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so under the sodium lights. The doom crier embraces the blackened sky, his cardboard omen hiding its ill fortune in the dark...
The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so in the rain. The doom crier welcomes the wet erosion, his cardboard omen starting to sag under the weight of the weather...
The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so in the snow. The doom crier embraces the deathly cold, his cardboard omen dusted with what looks like sky-fallen ash...
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- The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so under the brilliant sun. The king of disco is lit up like a stage, anticipating a funky beat that will never come...
- The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so under the brilliant sunlight. The doom crier in the centre waits to be swallowed by the bright sky, his cardboard omen flapping in the wind like live bait...
- The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so under the brilliant sunlight. The formless complexion glows at the centre, while the old architecture surrounding it groans in the heat with looming irrelevance...
- The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so under the brilliant sunlight. The penumbral griever is a silhouette against the bright sky, the flowers lifting him in requiem starting to wilt...
- The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so under the brilliant sunlight. The tickets remain true to their duty -- except for a few that have come unstuck, now assigned to brushing dirt from the asphalt below...
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The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so under the brilliant sun. The king of disco is lit up like a stage, anticipating a funky beat that will never come...
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The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so under the sodium lights. The apricot sceptre illuminates the disco king like a beacon in the dark, calling all dancers to wait for the drop of the next funky beat...
The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so in the rain. Drops fall around the apricot sceptre and bounce off the glitter balls, yet the noble king of disco still hunts unperturbed for the next funky beat...
The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so in the snow. The apricot sceptre glows fiercer upon the white sheets, held up by the frozen king of disco who hunts for the next funky beat...
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The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so under the brilliant sunlight. The penumbral griever is a silhouette against the bright sky, the flowers lifting him in requiem starting to wilt...
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The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so under the sodium lights. Darkness completely engulfs the penumbral griever, the flowers lifting him in requiem starting to wilt...
The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so in the rain. Drops fall like tears down the veil of the penumbral griever, while a few fallen petals drift like funerary boats downstream, weeping into drains...
The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so in the snow. The penumbral griever cuts black its misery against the white weather, the flowers lifting him in requiem starting to wilt in the cold...
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The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so under the brilliant sunlight. The tickets remain true to their duty -- except for a few that have come unstuck, now assigned to brushing dirt from the asphalt below...
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The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so under the sodium lights. The tickets remain true to their duty, ready for the night shift -- except for a few that have come unstuck, now assigned to brushing dirt from the asphalt below...
The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so in the rain. The sodden tickets remain true to their duty against the storm -- except for a few that lie face down below, honourably drowned in a puddle...
The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so in the snow. The tickets remain true to their duty, like a crowd of commuters huddled for warmth -- except for a few that have come unstuck, now assigned to raking the drifts below...
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The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so under the brilliant sunlight. The formless complexion glows at the centre, while the old architecture surrounding it groans in the heat with looming irrelevance...
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The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so under the sodium lights. The formless complexion glows at the centre, each street lamp failing to replicate the shining brilliance of its rebellion...
The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so in the rain. The painted surface at the centre welcomes the droplets like a water slide. Around it, the coast's older architecture enjoys nothing but slow erosion...
The roundabout is quiet, almost eerily so in the snow. The paint is a runny yolk at the centre, the birth cell of a new style -- ready to be dipped into and nourish the youth with sticky inspiration...
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An old monument stands in the middle of the traffic island. It is surrounded by scaffolding that has been haphazardly erected around it.
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An old monument stands in the middle of the traffic island. It is surrounded by scaffolding that has been haphazardly erected around it.
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An old monument stands in the middle of the traffic island, pointing toward the sea. It's been covered in posters with radical slogans like 'NO KINGS, NO BOSSES' and 'AGAIN, AND ONCE MORE AFTER THAT!'
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The old king and his horse have been covered in posters with radical slogans like 'NO KINGS, NO BOSSES' and 'AGAIN, AND ONCE MORE AFTER THAT!'
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At the bottom of the posters, in smaller lettering, are details about meeting at a local coffeehouse.
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An old monument stands in the middle of the traffic island, pointing toward the sea. The horse and rider appear to be struggling against the vibrantly coloured cables and coiled wire.
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The old king and his horse appear to be struggling against the vibrantly coloured cables and coiled wire.
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An old monument stands in the middle of the traffic island, pointing toward the sea. The whole thing is wrapped in vibrantly coloured cables and coiled wire. Where the horse's head should be, only twisted pieces of rebar remain.
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The old monument is wrapped in vibrantly coloured cables and coiled wire. Where the horse's head should be, only twisted pieces of rebar remain.
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An old monument stands in the middle of the traffic island, pointing toward the sea. It looks as if it's been reassembled piece-by-piece, secured and mounted in the air with the aid of numerous ropes and rods.