“Tell us a story, Gwandpa!”
The old man smiled at the two curly-haired kids, Adley and Bianca, on the floor in front of him, a pipe clasped between his fingers. “What kind of story do you want to hear?”
“Tell us another story
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In an elevated section of the amphitheater reserved for foreign dignitaries, Sparksworth, Duke of Spauldingshire, watched the opening ceremonies of Ulteria’s annual Festival of the Roses while struggling to resist the urge to chew his fingernails over the true purpose of his visit.
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I plummeted to the shadow-covered ground, quickly tucking into a roll. Then I leapt to my feet and dusted off my brick-red cloak. Gross, this better not be another prison cell.
Before I could explore any further, a huge hand grasped my hood and lifted
The void stretched before Spark, black flecked with silver, like glitter. The recycled air stuck in his chest as he took it all in—millions upon millions of uncharted stars, floating farther than anyone had ever gone before. Each was a new world to explore,
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Transfiguration Church’s Pasta Night was the same every year: an all-you-can-eat Italian buffet, two hundred parishioners cramming the American Legion Hall, old folks doing “YMCA,” and the 50-50 raffle.
My sister Cecily and I always spent every minute in the bar.
Not for the booze.
I pressed one finger to my lips and an ear to the office door. The lackey guide raised an eyebrow. Strained voices drifted from the room beyond.
Heroics always required genius, nerve, and timing.
“But we need the manpower to fight!” argued a female voice.
“We’ve got a fanfiction character on the loose, Agent Spaulding.” Fledgling hands me a dossier.
I kick my heels onto my desk. “And?”
Fledgling’s eyes widen. “And? Regulations state we need to hunt it down before it tangles the timelines, sir!”
“I know
At best, my Mark 12 Temporal Teleporter had maybe one last jump in it. Any means of controlling my destination’s location or time was lost long ago. But my space shuttle’s equally wonky steering was currently spiraling me into a gas giant
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Spark’s reflection multiplied infinitely in the high-tech museum’s mirror maze. Each image wore the same chartreuse blazer and metallic pants he’d chosen specifically to stand out at the exhibition. Now he wished he’d worn something less conspicuous. Being the center of attention
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Spark scanned the street, a typical mid-town scene: corner bodega, laundry, electronics repair store, coffee shop, all with residential spaces perched above. Nothing to merit the strange sensation prickling him. Several normal-looking people walked by; a couple surreptitiously glanced his way. Spark nodded
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I had no problem leaving Spark Spaulding stuck in Albanue’s prison sewers. He was responsible for this mess, so I figured Spark could rely on advice he’d given before: “The worst prison is the one in your head.”
I didn’t count on his
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