“Hold on—we’re crashing!” the bigfoot bellowed as he pulled back on the aircraft’s controls.
I tucked my wings against my body and gripped the armrests. Squatch was not our regular pilot, and it showed.
Again I wished that Gob and Flats hadn’t had to deal with the Werewolf Plague of 1346.
Terrific. They spotted me.
Rebecca floored the accelerator as the car in front of her rounded a corner. Fortunately, most of Athens’ boulevards stretched straight a considerable distance, allowing her to race forward. And at one a.m., she didn’t have to contend with traffic.
Rebecca’s electric-blue Ford Puma jumped to one-hundred-twenty kilometers per hour.
She’s not there. I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly. When I reopened them, the beaked creature still beckoned to me from behind our masonry stove, her clawed hand frantic. Sighing, I stared pointedly at my knitting. She’s not there.
Only, I knew she was.
I just had no idea why no one else
“You know, you’ve got this all wrong.” Aloysia glared at her unwanted visitor, who’d just burst into her tiny cabin in the heart of Germany’s Black Forest and announced his intention to “rescue” her.
The knight in shining armor stood in front of the twelve-year-old girl, his jaw slack, eyes bulging.
Honestly.
There is beauty all around me— it is breathtaking, heart rending. I have opened my eyes to a world of color, of laughter and dancing. I have taken breath and smelled bonfires and fresh snow. Children sing and dance through the Polish village while maidens adorn the trees with hollowed eggs and ribbons.
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It was that time of year when Lancaster Manor’s garden was filled with all the colors and fragrances which have given English gardens their reputation. In the middle of the garden grew a large oak tree with branches that spread like welcoming arms. Nestled in these branches was Molly Lancaster, with her nose
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I arrive in the Valley of the Kings in an air conditioned car. When I open the door, I’m blasted with Egypt’s oppressive heat. Howard’s tent is his only protection from the sweltering sun, but he steps out to welcome me to the set.
He’s a famous, multi-award-winning director, so I’m willing to…
She swept into town like the swirls of dust that haunted the desert plains, a lonely traveler like a bounding weed, and struck out to seek what was lost.
The town, its decrepit buildings leaning into the incessant south winds, swiftly spread the name of Mellie Rembrandt. Nobody forgot a name like Rembrandt…
Vince was grateful for his wetsuit, even though the frigid waters of the Potomac still stung as he rolled out of his boat that fated January morning. He gasped. Instantly, his bones began to ache.
I’m too old for this.
The sign plastered on a buoy read, “POOR VISIBILITY, STRONG CURRENTS.”
The inspector tapped on the microphone. A sharp burst of static filled the room. “All right. We have Prisoner WVM-01 here for questioning. Please detail for our records your involvement in the Silver Bridge Accident on December 15th, 1967.” He flicked on a floodlight, and I blinked behind my night vision goggles.
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Martin awoke to a few unexpected discoveries, the first of which was finding himself suspended upside down from a tree branch. Considering his last memory was losing his footing and tumbling down a sharp embankment, this predicament came as a relief. After all, he wasn’t dead or grievously injured. So that was a plus.
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Donner. Where’s Donner?
Nicholas shielded his face from the blizzard’s gale, lifted his kerosene lamp, and counted the antlered heads of his reindeer. Dasher. Dancer.
A January gust smacked his red coat. Snow stung rosy cheeks.
Prancer… Vixen. The old man’s teeth gritted. Comet… Cupid… Blitzen…
Donner?
Yukon peaks loomed in silent observance…
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