Something skittered under Avery’s bed.
Not again.
He opened his eyes. The bedroom door was cracked open, sending a thin line of hallway light over the bed. Across the room, the clock on Avery’s dresser showed 9:47 p.m. Its digital face illuminated the Captain America
Jojo the long-eared jerboa was terrible at serving tea. No matter how carefully he carried the porcelain pot across the floor, his uneven gate always caused sloshing onto the fine oriental rug. The slow, wobbly progress was painful to watch, yet
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“Whoa, whoa, slow down!” Siobhan tried to calm the hysterical little girl who’d introduced herself as Kate before dissolving into tears. “What happened to your kitten?”
“A sock gremlin took her!” Kate wailed, covering her tear-streaked face with her hands. “I’ll never see her again!”
Whilst applying fresh caulk to the hull of the first-class whaler, Penroyal heard a walloping thump.
Not a bump, nor a splat, plop, or slosh. A thump. In his experience, that meant only one thing.
“Ye put down that rum, John Clarence,”
When the doctor said I needed an emotional support animal, I expected to be assigned a typical house pet. A dog, maybe. A cat if I was feeling ambitious. I was okay with something that shed, but not something that could be detected by satellite.
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Although she’d finished smoothing soil over her seeds and was growing wetter by the second, Gerda was in no hurry to leave her garden. She savored the rain. Too little had fallen the year before, resulting in meager fare ever since.
I’m lucky to have that much. She smiled. Well, I do have a good luck charm.
Fern pressed a wrinkled finger against each of the tiny shamrocks embedded in the mossy roof. “I used to love playing leprechauns,” she mused, turning the miniature clover-colored house in her stiff hands. “Guess you’re not so magical after all.”
Peering inside
Ziff pushed open the squeaky doors to The Crooner’s Saloon and took a cautious step inside. A goblin hunched over the keys on an old piano, pounding out a medley filled with far too many flat notes. Two she-elves stood on stage, both dolled up in an overabundance of petticoats and ruffles,
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“Our triumph is close at hand, thanks to Dr. Drago!” General Kohl proclaimed triumphantly as he stood in front of the B-17 Flying Fortress, the sunlight reflecting off his bald head. He pointed to a huge, opaque metal cylinder directly beneath the aircraft.
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Roger struggled inside the sack, his head aching from the after-effects of the day’s overindulgence at the Tavern. When he’d agreed to a game of chance with an ogre, this was not what he’d envisioned.
The bag allowed in minimal light, and when he pressed
Maisie swings her feet on the faded green bench as she waits for the school bus to arrive. She tries to focus on the birds singing, instead of on her heart thumping in her chest.
“You’ll rule middle school,” she tells herself as a yawn escapes her. Maisie wipes sweaty palms on her skirt
Kaloa headed for the water, surfboard in hand. The crashing waves roared the truth he refused to hear: he kept trying to prove he was the same rider from fifteen years ago.
He duck-dived through the break and surfaced in a prime spot. One, two, three paddles—he was up.
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