Faced with great adversity, most gingerbread men will crumble. But not the gingerbread men of the Cloves family. No, they are tough cookies.
“You ready?” Samuel T. Cloves yelled to his friend Billy.
“I am, but I think this is crazy.” Billy’s frosty mouth quivered on his brown cookie face. He perched on
Let the stars be my witnesses: I, Kepler, would do everything in my power to get a waffle.
The sweet, cinnamony scent of the breakfast delicacy wafted through the starship’s hallways and down to my workstation. Ever since Aurora had joined our motley crew, I’d enjoyed the immense pleasure of taste-testing every culinary
“S-s-sir, please!” Malcolm hunkers low in his chair, hiding behind his notebook. “We’ve talked about this! You have to remain calm—”
Fire spews through the hollow eyes of my pumpkin head as I tower over him. “I am completely calm, Malcolm!”
My butler, currently acting as my therapist, cowers deeper into his chair.
Since graduating high school, I’d acquired the ability to identify poisons—without dying, important detail—saved the head of the council, learned about mystical evil Knights threatening our kingdom, been killed—poison again, I’m not immune—and rescued my true love on multiple occasions. You’d think that’d be enough to ask of any eighteen-year-old.
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Most people think the life of a Muse is easy. Sounds like a breeze, doesn’t it? You sit around all day eating Pringles and drinking Coke as you throw scrumptious ideas at your constantly inspired, always eager-to-please writer. Sure thing, mate. It’s the life. The good ol’ American dream. Piece of cake
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A Garangian paladin is intimidating. His armor has spikes and hooks and even gives off an eerie phosphorescent glow in the dark. The emperor wouldn’t have it any other way. He knew any conquered alien who might dare to fight his paladins would take one look at a Garangian’s helmet
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It is dangerous to travel alone,” the old man said. He shuffled to a wooden wardrobe in the corner of the study. “You must take this.”
Hart took a deep breath and grinned. Finally, a weapon worthy of my call as the Crimson Champion! He put a hand on his new red belt,
“Homeward bound,” I announce, opening the door of my time machine. The chromium steering lever on the control panel gleams invitingly.
“Blitzkrieg!” Cuthbert the parrot flaps onto my shoulder.
“You can stop shrieking that ridiculous code word now,” I grumble. “The mission is over.”
And what a mission it was. I’m not one
Sam snatched the steaming paper cup of black coffee off the counter. His palm crawled at the heat from the cup as he stepped outside. He set the coffee down carefully on the wrought-iron tabletop where legal pads and heavy historical tomes teetered in unstable stacks.
The barista was a loser.
The shop had
The glass roof of the museum’s atrium shatters, and I duck behind a pillar. Twenty-three rotund robots rappel through the jagged opening on extensible steel arms. Riding atop the center bot is a short, pudgy man in a purple-and-green-striped lab coat. Frizzy orange curls encircle his bald scalp like clouds around a shiny mountaintop.
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Apprentice wizard—a glorious job fraught with adventure and magic, one sure to gain the attentions of the ladies. Especially if you’re not up to the whole hay baling and Adonis-body-building thing.
I rest my dirt-caked hands on my knees. Ha. Some adventure. Then again, pulling weeds is no small feat, especially
I’ve just finished mopping the floor of the Decimator’s control room when two Second Class Henchmen walk in. The big goons leave muddy footprints all over the—formerly—shiny floor. I glare after them, but they don’t even notice me.
Typical.
No one notices me unless they slip on a wet floor, or—
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