It was a quiet day in the Underworld, so Charon lazed back, smoking a cigarette and gazing out over the waters of the Styx, a view of which he never got tired. Startled from his reverie, he gasped and scrambled to his feet. Standing right next to him was a new client,
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Most who sail the sea are afraid of enduring a storm. I’d not be anywhere else for all the gold on all the islands, because I only see him when lightning strikes the ocean.
Raindrops plummet down my neck, each dying quick deaths in the jade-dark waves. Night thickens around me and my coracle
Aryelle peered into the unearthly gloom of the Black Forest. She didn’t want to be here, but she also didn’t know of any other way that she, a mere girl of fifteen, could save her father from the dark dungeons of Lord Galdomé’s castle.
“Bring me a bag of gold from the dragon’s hoard
Peter chose a table in the back of the tavern, giving himself a wide view of the entrances. He ordered a drink and instinctively scanned the room. He noted a frail old man watching him across the way. He avoided eye contact, but the man continued to watch him. Was he being followed?
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“The wax man’s face is melting off!” Another one for the list of weird things that I say with surprising regularity.
“Melting how?” James Prothero asks.
I scowl at him over my shoulder. “How many ways can I mean melting?”
“Are we talking Wicked Witch of the West or Ark of the Covenant?”
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