Lost but he couldn't stop hearing those footsteps, in his mind. They kept going on and on. Jack could hear his footsteps echoing.
Jack sat there engulfed in smoke – hoping the ash-filled clouds would somehow shield him from the pain.
Her body flew through the air, so unnaturally, like a bird caught in a tornado. The blood cascading down her forehead like a waterfall of emotion.
Her delicate face was transformed into a mask – a crimson mask of blood and agony. The smell of burnt rubber and panic in the air. It was electric. Why did she have...
It was hard to send a message in a bottle when you didn't even have the bottle.
Harry sighed as he put the folded bit of paper into the stream, hoping it would be carried to someone who would find him. Someone with better navigational skills than he had anyway. He couldn't even write his location, because he hadn't the slightest Goddamn idea where he was. GPS didn't do a hell of a lot of good with a dead phone, and if he hadn't slipped down that muddy slope...
Nevermind.
He rested along the stream's edge and looked up at...
The embroidery was hard to steal. Laser beams criss crossing the museum walls and floors. Two hours later I was opening the bag of cash, counting, shaking hands with my client, ignoring the warning thoughts invading my head since the moment I'd been hired.
'Moonlite Glow' was cursed. Apparently, anyone who handled it suffered misfortune. The last four owners died unexpectedly, gruesome and slow. One fell out of his bedroom window straight onto steel sharp railings, not found until the next day. Another drowned in his hot tub after his big toe got stuck somehow. He shut off his mind...
Darling, I have done this to you
but I've done this to the rivers, too
I have ravaged mountainsides and
leveled acres of forest
I have seen your look before
in the wildlife of the eroding canyon
in the shattered shy, the moon and sun
sharing the shrinking space.
Find something to do
and do it
before I ruin that,
too
Twist. Twist. Twist. The doorknob wouldn't turn. The door wouldn't open. And then Liz would find out why Sebastian was keeping her in his bathroom. It was a nice bathroom, the blue tiles matched the fluffy towels and everything was clean. Still locking someone in the bathroom wasn't proper etiquette. Proper etiquette was texting someone or calling them, and asking if they wanted to discuss their differences over coffee. Being polite wasn't tossing someone over their shoulder and locking them in their bathroom with an ominous "I'll be back."
Aargh. She was going to kill Sebastian for locking her in...
This was the month she was going to do it. Yes, really. This time.
Sitting down at the keyboard she faced the blank screen. First things first, time for coffee.
Now she could start. Come on, come on, come on. Where is my muse?
She strokes the keboard, searching internally for inspiration.
PUFFFF!
At first she thinks the computer screen is broken. Or maybe a virus has hijacked her software. She peers in astonishment.
A green face is forming in front of her eyes. At first the details are vague and hazy. Then it grows clearer. Yes, definitely a face....
In 1921, he flew from the Great Rift Valley. No one believed him, of course. They knew a man could not simply spread his wings and fly. Because a man had no wings, and that was really the point of it. But he insisted he had done it. “Just because no one saw me,” he said, stretching his arms up to the sky, “Does not mean it didn’t happen.”
No one was convinced.
“I flew,” he continued, “From one side of the rift to the other. Over the canyon. I soared above the ground and floated in the sky.” He...
Until now, she'd never thought of herself as pretty. After all, her parents had named her Agnes. Agnes. That was the name of some fat, frumpy girl. But she stood here at the mirror, the bell had long since rung and students had settled themselves in desks. The comb in her bag would have to do. Maybe something from the haze of hairspray left behind by the other girls would help set the ridiculously high bangs she had crafted for herself.
She threw the comb in her bag and headed out into the hall. It was empty as expected. Agnes...
Rip Van Winkle was a story that I never understood. How could a man that slept for forty years in a forest, aging all the while, just waltz back into town and have such and unremarkable story? Imagine having an absolutely perfect memory of the incidents, the setting and the culture of a time before this. I've always loved history, so I guess I'm just gushing out of a personal fetish, but if I was to lock myself away for years and come out of it, I would like to think that someone would really appreciate my particular knowledge.
Walking...
Once, in Beijing, a young girl in a red gown huddled in a doorway.
It was raining, her hair was plastered to her face in a black sheen as she raised her arm to cover her head, even though she was already soaked through. The once beautiful crimson dress made of expensive silk now hung in tatters. Black kohl and the remains of red blush slide down her cheek, collecting in the dimples of each side of her face. The jade hairpin holding up an elaborate hairstyle had long since fallen out, leaving her long wave of black hair spilling...