Dear Kenny,
I know I said I wouldn’t go back, but I had to, all right? I’m alive, obviously, and I know why you told me to stay away. But I couldn’t—so let’s leave it at that and move on.
I think things were a little different for me. When we were…
Once more, the sun set on Reuben’s farm. Beneath the fuchsia sky, no kittens mewed, no cattle lowed. Eerie quiet filled the chicken coop, the barn, and even the doghouse. Not even birdsong broke the farm’s unnatural silence. To the east, however, the world began to stir as sunlight left its skies. Living creatures
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I never cared much for Bigfoot as a kid, even though I live in his backyard. Have you seen the crazies who hunt him? No thanks.
But I was concerned with the Canadian legend of a three-inch-tall gray creature that built nests out of dryer lint. Something people like to think doesn’t exist in
“Baku-san, come eat my dreams.” Woozy with exhaustion, I laid my head back on the clean white pillow to wait. But not to sleep. I could never sleep until the mission was over.
Outside the window of the tiny hotel room, a neon sign flickered in the endless city lights of Tokyo.
“Another human got in.”
Clio yawned and preened one long coppery feather. Annoying humans. “Another? Which portal this time?”
“That’s the problem.” The minotaur shifted his hooves in the sand of the desert zone. “We don’t know how she got in.”
“You’re too soft, Terminus. You should block every portal. How are
Katrina stood poised at the edge of the cave, her breath held behind clenched teeth. Her sword was raised as she waited for the sandworm to smell its prey. Breathe in… Quietness burned in her ears. Breathe out… Nothing stirred from the depths. Katrina couldn’t move. Her eyes vibrated from staring into
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Cal Ravenwood would have killed for a cigarette. Much to his chagrin, he was trying to quit. Not so much for health reasons, but because nicotine and the use of magic didn’t mix well. It was one of the unspoken laws of the Dark Matter, the entity from which all magic was born.
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Saul almost missed the drop at the Del Mar Fish Market in Sarasota, no thanks to his enlarged prostrate and the constant need to pee. When he finally arrived, a few fishmongers were already dumping pink ice down storm grates while others hosed down the concrete under their tents. All the king mackerel and
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I found the body at dawn.
The sailor was slumped against the wrecked stern in a bloody pulp. He clung to the humble fishing boat’s planking as the chilled waters of Lake Erie lapped the crumpled hull.
Poor soul.
Bart, my beagle, set his paws on the top rail of our small fishing vessel.
It was a balmy spring morning and Mr. Robert Washington was trundling down a dirt road in a beaten-up Ford F-Series. Around him, the corn grew tall and lush and the surrounding windbreaks teamed with life. Passerines sang, corvids squawked, crickets chirped, bees hummed, cicadas droned. And then, without warning or reason, they all
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The shadows of rocky outcroppings stretched across my path as the sun lowered toward evening. It was dangerous to be alone this late—I knew it well. But my feet drew me onward, until the caravan was lost to the hills behind and even their voices and the noise of the camp faded.
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The mecha’s armor plating groaned as another giant twelve-legged spider slammed against it. I shoved back. My megabot’s left arm swung out, smashing the monster into the hard-packed snow. Two more spiders replaced it, stepping over the twitching remains of the first.
I took a step back. The mecha’s foot slipped into open air.
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