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.
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.
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.