They weren't Norwegian, they were Swedish. We bombed all hell out of them anyway.
That was ash, not smoke. Ash moves slower than smoke. Ash langours. Yes, that might have been soot, but it could have been bone.
In the mess at breakfast, we could heard a chirping through the settling din.
That wasn't a bird.
"And when I get older, I'm going to be a fairy!" little Leslie exclaimed. On their second playdate, she and her new pre-school friends were already discussing their life goals. As the only girls in their new class, they quickly bonded and had to stick together.
As they grew, their friendship did as well. They squabbled over birthday party themes, which high-school to attend and not infrequently, boys. As two went off to college, Leslie chose a different route. She became known on the music festival circuit as the best-damn flowered headband maker... it wasn't long before she had her...
Tom watched the sun set slowly over the skeletal remains of Brighton Pier. He had spent the day wandering through the narrow lanes of the town, stopping in the curio shops, selecting strange items from dusty shelves. A pocket watch, its mechanism rusted by age and inattention, was warm in his hand. Its smooth surface, touched by a hundred hands, was plain and unadorned. He wondered who had bought it, seen it in the window of a watchmakers, taken it home. Who had carried it in their pocket. Had they perhaps stood at this very spot, looking out to sea,...
Freddy knew once he'd started to hallucinate he was Napoleon that he'd smoked a joint too far. Or Allison had sneaked something strange in there. His mouth tasted of ash and flecking leaves.
We're all eating cake! he shouted. He couldn't hear very well in his left ear, it seemed to echo there. His voice was strange. Tiny, as if he were a mouse.
Agatha, who was currently drinking blood from a wineglass, told him that was the wrong thing to say. He wasn't Marie, now was he? And even then that wasn't what she really said.
Freddy didn't care...
everything flows
Time lay scattered everywhere. In the depths of the forest he could hear the 1700s exploring; somewhere to his left there were the ancient druids.
everything is meant to flow
The watches had stopped. All of them. Then again, everything was happening all at once, and there is only so much that clockwork can stand. Mechanisms are man-made and they can be broken, just as man can.
time is meant to flow
He was aware that this couldn't last - not that there was really a concept of lasting now (not a meaningful one, anyway). The universe would...
He had crossed the crunchy yard to the Cathedral many times, and he proceeded as usual without thinking too much about the crossing. He didn't really hear the crunch of his boots on the blue metal surface. He didn't really see the wattle beginning to bloom. He didn't really smell the sweet air of spring. Bishop Smith was worried: someone was stealing the sacred host from the ciborium.
It puzzled him. Would anyone in the 21st century really steal the consecrated host for black magic? No one could possibly want the bread to satisfy hunger: the wafers were thin and...
I'm with stupid.
What an offensive shirt to wear on a first date, I thought as I picked at my salad. As soon as it was socially acceptable, I'd excuse myself to the bathroom, where I'd conveniently get a call from my dog's babysitter.
As we finished dinner, I prepared to make my dash to the bathroom, but he stopped me. "It's the shirt, isn't it?"
"I didn't say anything," I replied.
"I know you didn't, but you definitely noticed it. You'd have to be, well, stupid not to. So here's the story." His voice took on a sad tone....
This is the draft of my next novel
This is the scene/event that my subconscious created for me that caught my imagination, and made me believe it could be spun out into a whole book, because it was so good. SO good!
This is the ending I thought my agent/publisher would probably want me to finish it with. I don't actually like it that much.
This is something that happened in my actual life that is funny/poignant/unbelievable but I think will add gravitas and depth to the book.
This is the point when i start grasping at formula to pad...
They were listening to Bach while they sculpted windmills out of Play-doh. The Play-doh was blue. Aunt Gertrude would only allow blue Play-doh in the chalet. It had been that way since the accident.
Aunt Gertrude was 78 years old and she had no arms or legs. She had cut them off in 1983 as a display of devotion to Reggie, her pet octopus. Reggie could have cared less. I remember my Aunt as she wielded the chainsaw, slicing off her limbs, bathing everything in warm red gore. Reggie could care less. He just emitted some ink. Even when Aunt...
Lionel Richie was running naked down the street.
We saw him while driving to the donut shop. At first, I didn't think it was Lionel. Last time I saw him was grandma's birthday. He was there singing "Dancing on the ceiling." He actually tried dancing on the ceiling but then he fell down and hurt his little head. The police blamed it on gravity. But that's another story.
I had Mike stop the car. Then we both got out. We ran up alongside Lionel, who was running naked through Mrs. Benson's rosebushes. There were thorns embedded in his buttocks.
"Hey,"...