It's been a week since Halloween, a week since the end of October, a week since the culmination of Short As Fictober, my self-imposed, month-long writing journey. I haven't written much of anything since then, but I have had a moment to reflect on the experience and make a plan of sorts.
The scent of ripe Honeycrisp apples breezes down the center of Main Street...
The only light shining on the four-way stop outside of town came from a thumbnail moon and the swaying red glow of a solitary traffic signal. I finished the summoning ritual from the book I'd found in the second-hand shop, and an old busted Corolla ground to a halt in the middle of the intersection. I took a step back, clutching my guitar case.
High noon sunlight glares through the windshield of sky blue 1972 Chevy Chevelle. Behind the wheel, veteran stuntman, Terry Boggs, adjusts his hands for perfect placement on the steering wheel and shifter. A ramp stares him down on the far end of the runway, taunting him, trying to convince him that what he's about to attempt will fail. His radio crackles to life.
When the night had grown long in the tooth, and the starless sky turned dark enough to swallow the streetlights and traffic signals, every bar and tavern in downtown Bridgewater swung their doors wide, sloshing last-call patrons homeward.
Edith wore an old brown barn coat, the same one worn by her mother and her mother before her. Two lifetimes plus one in the making ran throughout the fabric, the buttons, the zipper. Inside, the coat had four pockets, each with the potential to contain entire worlds. This particular attribute made the girl's task at hand--delivering The Basement Tapes to the next faction over--significantly easier.
When the house goes dark, Penny lies awake making monsters out of shadows, wondering at the creaks and groans moving ever closer down the hallway's floorboards.
At dawn I pull the last batch of donuts from their bath in the deep fryer, and rack them to cool. My shop, Tasty Donut, opens its doors in thirty minutes and I'm lagging behind. Three straight days running on no sleep will have that effect. Surprised I've been full steam ahead as long as I have.
Sten can't afford a moment's rest. He traces the path he'd taken in his fall and tumble back up the hill, and spots the mob of forest trolls who've been hounding him all morning already rushing down the slope toward him, with far more aplomb than his ass-over-teakettle approach.
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.