“Em! This wardrobe is perfect for your new apartment!” Gillian waved emphatically at a cedar monstrosity.
Scowling at her exuberant friend, Em pointed to deep scratches marring the doors. “Why would I want something that looks like it picked a fight with raccoons and lost?”
“We can sand those out. It’ll look vintage.”
You arrive that first morning at Cibola High School with low expectations. This is the muggy, muddy, backwater of Florida. The only bright side: you can absolutely dominate the social scene.
So, you enter with a bright smile directed at everyone from that hot basketball captain to the wallflower girl and even the custodian
I’d only wanted to disappear for a time, not be forgotten forever.
I grip the chalk with every muscle in my tired fingers. It scrapes my plea against the pavement in a desperate shade of blue. Mom or Dad will notice me this time. I lean back and rub my sore knees.
Dr. Byron Stoneburner inserted the bronze snake into a satchel as German bullets whizzed overhead. He secured the latch on the bag and mumbled a prayer.
Courage. Or Jack’s dead.
A disheveled officer nudged his arm. “You’re serious?”
Byron tightened his helmet chinstrap and placed a muddy boot on the trench ladder.
Nobody knew precisely where the relics came from nor how those with the money and power to assemble such collections managed to locate them in the first place.
Yet Hal was certain of one thing—at some point he had robbed and swindled them all.
“Let me guess. You see yourself as…
Haleh hunched over her loom at the back of her parents’ rug shop, a knot tightening in her chest as her father tried to reason with their most difficult customer.
“It takes time, Amir… You’ve asked for a large rug…” Father’s voice wavered. “We need another month. Remember, good things are worth the wait.”
The arrow ripped open my pant leg, slicing into my thigh. Leave it to the Mythic Mafia to get all theatrical with their weapon choices.
“Are you hurt, sir?” the girl beside me asked.
“Shut up and run,” I ordered.
We raced around a corner. Well, she raced, and I limped.
“Reginald!”
At ten years old, I was well-versed in my mother’s acoustic range and recognized this dangerous pitch. I peered out from under my covers—the clock announced “8:00 a.m.” in bright red. On a Saturday morning. Why was I already in trouble?
Panic pulsated through me.
They say in your last moments you see the faces of those you love. Yet as dark red stained through Coren’s tunic to the tips of his fingers, he wondered if he’d ever truly loved anyone. How much blood had he lost? Even with the pressure he applied, life escaped him like water through a cracked dam.
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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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After they stole my boots, they tied a necklace of dynamite around my throat.
Georgie, an unkempt prospector who stank like a skunk in a manure pile, knelt into the stream and lifted my pan, surveying its sandy contents as dawn glimmered orange in the fuming mist of Yellowstone hot springs.
The stench of death assaults my nose as the abyss yawns before me. I breathe in the stagnant draft as a slippery carpet sweeps me off my feet. Ivory spikes rise from above and below. They curve inward, directing me to the pit and reminding me that this journey might be my last.
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