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.
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.
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.
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.
A block from the bright neon sanctuary of a well-traveled gas station, we lost the tread on our left rear tire