Slap. Slap. Slap.
Waves hit against the side of the Friendship. Slap. Slap. Slap. We are an invader in their domain. My stomach roils, and I clamp a sweaty palm over my mouth. I wouldn’t lose much in the way of food if I retched, but it’s the principle of the whole thing.
“Hikari, let’s review your statement.” I flip three pages back in my notebook. There needs to be no discrepancies in the retelling of my defendant’s story. Traveling at 220 mph, I’m aware I have little time to solve this case. The Nozomi Bullet Train takes two hours and fifteen minutes to travel from
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There it is again. The white thing breaches the shimmering surface of my tea. One glance at the bulbous lump and the word tumor springs to mind unbidden. I raise the mug to my nose ostensibly to smell it, but really, I’m trying to sneak a closer look. What is that? Steam rises from
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Big Ben chimes the hour. One. Two. Three. Four… all the way to nine. Nine in the evening. But it seems darker. Blacker than midnight. Not even a candle allowed. Shadows lie heavy over London, suppressing all thoughts and laughter. I toss off the covers, trying to free myself from the constricting bed clothes.
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I’ve just collapsed my blind when I realize two things.
First, the bushveld is silent.
Second, I’m being hunted.
If my hunch is correct, I’m being hunted by the same man-eating lion I’ve been stalking for the past three weeks. He must be tired of toying with me. Tired of avoiding my blind.
The whole town had one table.
Baie’s great-uncle Dwall had brought it home with him back in 1960-something after a long absence across the African continent. He’d promised to return with the town’s first car.
Many in the tiny Burundi hamlet scoffed. Dwall would not succeed. Even if he did, what good was a
A dozen people tread through the corn. Insects fall and writhe against their careful hands as they part the stalks. They curse under their breath for not sowing the seeds in tidy, even rows. Instead, the plants grew nestled close together, their rows zigzagging, mazelike across the miles of flat land.
She is missing.
Mark ducked away from a barrage of hail moments before the gunshot clacked. The bullet skimmed his shoulder as a gust, gritty and wet, kicked him to the sidewalk. The tornado slashing through the Indiana countryside was closing in—debris and trees rotating in a torrid sky like dust in a vacuum.
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Tacos.
I woke from a delicious dream of seasoned meats and melted cheese. Hazily, I grappled for my phone and tried to focus my still-bleary eyes. Of course I was dreaming of tacos. It’s Taco Tuesday.
Or it should be Taco Tuesday, but for me there would be no carnitas wrapped in soft,
It isn’t positively raining, but there is a mist in the air that seeps through one’s clothes. A young boy stands beneath a lamppost, staring across the cobbled street. One trouser knee is patched, and the other needs patching. He shrugs his shoulders and buries his cold hands deeper into his pockets.
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Saturday night in the World Capital Hospital’s Emergency Department is often full of surprises. Maybe the biggest came when Earth’s President, Derek Percy, was wheeled in strapped to a gurney after trying to claw his own face off. As the chief resident of the Emergency Department, it fell to me to investigate.
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Manitoba, November 1955
The class goes silent. Just one word out of place, but that’s all it takes. She looks round to see they’ve all noticed. Of course they have. And most importantly, Johnson has. I don’t call him our teacher, because he doesn’t teach us anything apart from who we aren’t, and
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