The king sits on a throne of broken bones and watches the girl cross the desert, carrying his death with her.
The air burns Jana’s throat when she inhales, heat wicking the moisture from her mouth. She has walked for an hour, two hours—impossible to tell exactly—with the sun a white, unmoving eye in the bleached sky. The mountain looms over her now, a black mass blotting out the horizon.
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I shut to door to the conference room behind us. “Sir, please calm down.”
“I’ll calm down when I get some answers.” Mr. Buxton rounded on me. “My boy went missing for more than twenty-four hours and no one can tell me where he was or what happened to him.”
Roy pulled the cover back and took a long look at Charlene. His heart pounded as he slid his hand along her backside. He figured she had rested long enough. “Wanna go for a spin, baby?”
Charlene was in pristine condition, with all original parts, right down to her factory color—hugger orange with twin white rally stripes. She was his dream car—a 1969 Camaro Z/28.
By Justin Mynheir “This is quite a pickle. Isn’t it, dear?” Dave leaned against the inside of the rusted cage. Down the cliffside, across an amphitheater of ancient stone ruins claimed by jungle growth, suspended over a bubbling pool of lava, Karen fidgeted in her rope bindings. “You think?!” “I think plenty, but even my
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The Queen lay awake long past midnight, tracing the lines on her face with her fingers. They were deeper than they had been yesterday. They turned to wrinkles and then to crevasses, stealing her youth and beauty.
The man sleeping beside her would say she was even more beautiful than the day he’d first seen her
I don’t usually enjoy parties. But a rave? I had to experience one of those.
Hannah dragged me down the coast to a cozy little beachside town removed from society. Cars and RVs were packed into a giant parking lot on the outskirts. People from all over came for the rave.
Vera’s air lasted just long enough to finish the song, and then her throat closed. Wheezing, she dipped a curtsy to sparse applause. Before she could faint onstage, she pushed through the hazy gambling hall and escaped outside.
A gaslight supported her as she fought to catch her breath. At least she’d finished her set, unlike last night.
The mud hut was thatched with grass that stuck out like my hair in the morning. Its only difference from the other huts was the paper nailed to the door. I had to squint to read the orange gel pen writing: Archibald Waverly.
I knocked.
An old man with tufts of white hair
I laid the photos out on the little café table in front of Marianne. “Can you tell me anything about any of these people?”
She ran her fingers over the faces. “They all look familiar, but I can’t say I actually know any of them.” She peered up at me.
Lucy landed on the cottage roof and folded her gossamer wings. She clasped her hands together and gazed at the sliver of moon shining like a scimitar above the quiet village. Tonight was her first solo mission. After months of training, she would fight the darkness and earn her Weaver name.
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An unkempt and rather grisly-looking man slumped in a chair with the computer screen reflecting off his glasses. His elongated fingers began to type furiously at the keys as the clock mocked him with how little time was left.
Dear Mama,
I’m sorry. It’s cold here, the food is bland, even the wind feels listless.
If Brandy heard one more person tell her what a good wife she would be, she was going to drown a sailor.
She heaved a deep breath as she twisted her silver locket around her fingers and walked down the dark cobblestone streets. It was a paltry trinket, certainly not a token of love, though it had been given to her by the man she loved.
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