The field beside my childhood home attracts starlings. When I was young, I’d sit on the wooden fence and watch them. My father was always working in the garage behind our house, but whenever he saw me there, he’d stop and join me.
“Those are murmurations,” he’d tell me as dark clouds of starlings rose against the gray winter sky.
“By the power of the lamp held in your hand, your smallest wish is my command.”
A low, prolonged squeal escaped Alan’s wide smile. His eyes ping-ponged between the lamp he held and the ethereal figure before him.
“Though your wishes cannot exceed three, there are no bounds for what they may be.”
Your little act ends here. You fool no one. Now breathe. Relax. By the time you finish reading this message, all your online accounts will have been deleted; all your online profiles will have been wiped out. There will be nothing to recover. No data left anywhere whatsoever.
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What is it about living teenagers that makes breaking into places after hours so appealing to them? I mean, look at me. I get rules. Don’t be seen, don’t be heard, don’t make mist unless the forecast calls for it. And curfew? I follow curfew every night. I’m only allowed out after dark, anyway.
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Sarah finishes the story of her grandmother’s encounter with a local mythical.
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At Havok, we count a lot. Number of submissions, days, lightning bolts, comments. Number of authors, members, staff, newsletter subscribers. [Have you subscribed to our newsletter? If not, we send monthly updates about submissions, insider info, and other writer-related stuff that doesn’t show up here.] Today, we’re counting multiple publications. This Saturday Scoreboard is brought
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