Poet of yore

Usage examples of scop.

Kennedy stretched on the bed, looked away from Scop, looked at the ceiling again.

Kennedy seemed to fall into a deep and even slumber, the sound of his breathing large and rhythmic in the room, paying no further regard to Scop at all.

Moving over to the bed, standing poised, then, above the man Scop had a vision and in that vision he descended upon Robert Kennedy with hands grown ferocious and enormous through need and tore his throat, beat him severely around the temples until he was dead and the need to do it was momentarily palpable, Scop could feel it stalking within him.

In fact, Scop leaned forward, thrust out his hands in a rigid, militaristic gesture to do just that, to begin the slaughter and evisceration of Robert Kennedy.

For so long as Scop sang, holding each within the hall in thrall to him, binding them like slaves with his subtle, artful chain, time itself stood bound, its relentless flight arrested, unable to move.

I saw, stretching out before me as wide and empty as the sea, the same stark desolation Scop had seen.

I push my way out of his grasp, tearing his hands from me as if they were paper claws, something seeming to tear within him as I do this and then I blunder my way past him pushing hard, falling to the grass, coming erect and just as Scop has so many times so I do it as well: run.

The administrator is often known to do this, to leave his interviewees alone for some minutes before appearing but Scop takes it in stride.

He looks like all of the other administrators which is to say completely unremarkable and leaves no physical impression upon Scop, now or hereafter.

He squeezes the sculpture, the metal yields in his hand, slowly it puffs in its grasp and Scop sees a little extra breast beginning to extrude from the material.

His hands flutter over the sculpture, then begin to massage it skillfully and Scop thinks that he hears a bizarre groan.

My grasp of idiom is insecure or at least it does not have the fluidity which Scop himself has developed but it will do, it will do, my purposes at least are made clear to him in the sudden shifting of his features.

Zapruder, completely humiliated, turns to run, this will not work either, nothing will work and something must have happened to my timing, to my control of the instance because here is Scop, he is already at Dealey, bounding from the little hollow where he has hidden the converter, his face dull and murky with the effects of passage but the heaviness already beginning to lift as he sprints toward us.

For the moment however Scop can persist in the illusion of connection.

She must be having a dream, Scop thinks, a dream very much like some of his own: blood, death, pain dripping from the walls of the night but she will recover from hers in time whereas he will not and as far as Kennedy, there is no way in which he can apprehend what is going on in that brain at the present time.