I scowl at the computer screen and push my hair out of my eyes, rubbing black-stained fingers on my hoodie. They should be dry, but I can’t leave prints behind. Mrs. Grant—calling her Mom still sounds weird—says dyeing it makes me look like a goth troublemaker. I yank on my hoodie strings. Maybe I am.Read it now
Season Three - Bingeworthy
He was invisible.
At least, that’s how they treated him.
Roman sat in the weathered rocking chair on his front porch, a light spring breeze tossing his thinning hair. The late afternoon sun raced to hide its face from the world. He sighed.
All was right when he sat in his favorite chair.
His journey had been long and treacherous, but Cheddar had found it. An oasis, untouched by man, vast and plentiful. The wasteland of legends. A sprawling pile of rotten garbage more beautiful than all the dumpsters in Manhattan the day after Thanksgiving.
The Great Trash Barrier Island.
Cheddar the Rat wept at its filthy glory.
“For heaven’s sakes, Afrin, you’re the worst archeologist I’ve ever laid eyes on!”
“I’m a detective, Abraham,” I said, fingering my brimmed hat.
He folded his arms, his eyes on the vista around us. “Four months we’ve been hiking in the Andes—and for what?”
“The Egg of Creation,” Pedro said.
I stumbled out of the beam of light, doing my best to keep my balance on the icy sidewalk.
The house seemed smaller than I’d been expecting. All the houses were smaller than I’d expected.
“Where am I?” I asked Mission Control.
“Human village.” Cheryl smacked her gum in my earpiece.
Most people thought the cemetery was haunted. I knew better. It sat right atop the divide where the veil between worlds was weakest. Moonlight spilled through the clouds above, and when a sudden chill on the breeze drew goosebumps down my arms, my heart soared.
Jake. My sweet Jake, walking with me
Sunday morning, Bobby Jo Evans walked into Raiders Donuts and bought every single old-fashioned, jelly, long john, and cruller in the establishment. Armed with her pocketbook and righteous conviction, she knew only two things could kill the holy fire on that sacred day: faith without works and church without donuts.Read it now
Trey stared blankly at the flat screen. Another night of insomnia. Over the last few months, he’d tried everything: a new bed, diet, exercise, soothing music, noise cancelling headphones, sleeping in different positions. He’d even tried sleep therapy. Nothing worked. He dragged himself through the day like one of the walking dead,Read it now
The front door slams and jolts me from slumber. I uncurl and raise my head. What mortal dares to awaken me?
Ah. It’s my Human, Tricia. She takes off her wet rainboots in the entryway and hangs up her jacket.
“Hello, Mr. Fluffers!” She says in the annoyingly high voice reserved for me and me only.