The angel startles awake and rolls over in his hammock, squints against the glare of sunlight shoving its way through the screen of sycamore leaves.
Berta Saunders banks her plane hard to the left, swerving around a flock of juvenile dragons who squawk and screech and spit middle finger equivalents of flame in her direction. She checks the mirrors she installed on her craft just in case one of the little bastards decides it wants to show off and give chase.
An 8-bit symphony warms up before launching into the overture to begin the final stage. Boscoe sighs, and wipes the sweat from under his hat band with a gloved hand. He nearly has the pattern down, and it's a good thing he does.
The lantern's white-yellow light proffers a soft circle, a small illumination bubble to hold back the miles of darkness overhead. You count off the last fifty paces in this corridor, and stop. When you bring the lantern close to the cave floor, you find the same symbol you'd seen in the last three rooms--an eye floating above three wavy lines. Your heart sprints and your belly turns inside out.
A block from the bright neon sanctuary of a well-traveled gas station, we lost the tread on our left rear tire
Remy walks into the old Victorian's entryway shaking twilight frost from his trenchcoat. His movements are awkward as his right arm is immobilized in a sling. He does the best he can with his left hand to brush away the frosted condensation.
Usually, The Well-Read Woman's Literary Sofa Society meets every Thursday from 7:00-9:00 in the basement of A Darn Good Yarn: Craft Supply and Bookstore. But tonight three of its four members have arrived fifteen minutes early to discuss the membership of the most recent addition to their select circle.
While we waited on the tow truck, we flipped through the convention's schedule for the hundredth time that week, checking to make sure we were each going to the right panels at the appropriate time. There was no way we were going to miss the talk on adapting comics into films. There were some tremendous names attached to that panel.
Cal Sims watches the shambling man stumble out of the pancake butter sunset for the better part of a half hour. He'd just been a blurry horizon speck at first, but at the twenty minute mark began to materialize.
Tommy dipped his map into the coffee water bath he'd prepared that morning, and let it soak for a few minutes. While he waited, he whistled a worn out melody from the summer of ‘88, a ghost of a song he couldn't quite remember the name of. Funny. He and his friends had listened to it constantly that year, and it would seem that at least the name of the band might have rung a bell or two. He wrote a mental reminder to ask Connie when she finally bothered to show up.