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KyouSaya: Sayaka's Sick Day"See you later, Dad! Goodbye Tatsuya!"
Madoka Kaname closed the Kaname house's door behind her as she quickly ran to find her friends. The grass was as green as the leaves on the trees, and the sky was a bright, crisp blue. Madoka whirled through the cool spring air until she stumbled upon Hitomi Shizuki.
"Hi Hitomi! Where's Sayaka-chan..?"
"Good morning, Kaname-san. Sayaka's been sick all weekend and it got the better of her. It should do her some good to stay home and rest up."
"Y-yeah..You're right, Hitomi-chan. Maybe I should stop by after school and see if she's doing alright.."
Hitomi nodded her head as the two approached the school building. Madoka clutched onto her blue bag as she entered the classroom. Little by little, students arrived inside and sat down in their usual seats; The wooden chairs felt harder than usual, and the floor appeared to be mocking Madoka's sad expression. Homura Akemi strolled into the classroom; She glared in Madoka's direction and walked towards her
Apple and Cinnamon
Apple and Cinnamon
a Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magica fanfiction
by Sakura Rurouni
For Rosenal's KyouMami contest
"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young girl in possession of magical powers must be in want of a frilly outfit."
"Oh, bullshit, Mami-san. I know that reference and it does NOT say that."
"Well, it does now." I made no effort at all to conceal my grin as I lifted the frilly garment into sight. Tomoyo, eat your heart out.
She visibly blanched, moving backwards on instinct. "W-what is that... that... abomination?!"
"This," I replied, trying to emphasize how very generous I am being, "is your uniform for the evening. Take it. Embrace it. Wear it in expectation of two days in the future."
"You're taking advantage of my desperation!" She objected, coming closer now, wincing as she took in every frilly detail.
I shrugged. "Yes, and? Beggars cannot be choosers, Sakura-san."
"But whyyyyyyy?" She was doing her best to look tragic. Little did she know that
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
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