My reflection is gone, replaced by images of knights riding wyverns, doing battle with demons in the sky. The sun through this vision is bright, and I feel it’s warmth; my hands are still under the sink, and the water is cold.
I glance back at the bathroom door. Back at the vision. There’s a man up on his stirrups, screaming a war cry. I watch him f...
Like, take, for instance, that guy in a souped-up Ford Raptor, who tailgates you in the left lane because your Porsche 911 is a cop-magnet and you have to go the speed limit. Or the hostess who gives you a weird look when you walk into a steak restaurant and say, "table for one please," and later you can totally see her whispering things about you to h...
The pigeons began to fall at 3:34pm, on a bright and warm Tuesday afternoon.
They fell in number, cascading off sloped roofs, tumbling into streets, hanging in trees by their wings and necks, bright and plumed red and white and gray and black and blue and sometimes gold.
They fell all over—in the Americas and Europe and Asia and Australia and Africa. They fell over all the world, Antarctica too...
Pan didn’t much want to look over the precipice–not with the whipping wind at her back and the thousand-or-so foot drop at her front. The ground underfoot was rocky and uneven. Clouds flitted by, close enough to touch, and her mouth went dry. She swallowed, and it didn’t help. The corner of her forehead itched, and she would’ve scratched it were it not for Kaleson’s contraption.
The bubble was cramped, and not made for two people, Tommy decided.
It might’ve been a fine enough pinch to be stuck in, given better circumstances. The walls of the bubble were soft and squishy, and it smelled like lilac and was generally comfortable, as far as bubbles went.
Of course, that he was pressed against Ashlynn Miraglio, his legs intertwined with hers, his breath in her ear, hers ...
It’s the middle of November and I'm trudging through three feet of snow because, much to my dismay, bodies don't just bury themselves.
It's why I'm a seasonal serial killer.
So is my friend--a serial killer, that is to say. Not seasonal. Definitely not seasonal. Because while I'm haunting homesteads and butchering blocks in the idyllic eighty-degree Springfield summer, Jack is an emotional, imp...
The mother kept her children's teeth in a heart-shaped box, in the drawer of her nightstand, next to the magazines and the band-aids, below a few decks of cards and above the gun her ex-husband didn't want her to have.
She would count the teeth, if she could. It'd be better, she knew, if she ignored the box entirely, tucked it away in the back of her mind like the bottom of a nightstand. She did ...
Miss Miriam Donahue was known throughout the school as The Matchmaker. She had been known as The Matchmaker since the seventh grade, when she convinced Luke Constance to go out with Amy Whittaker, despite the fact that Luke hadn’t even known who Miss Whittaker was.
She paired one other couple together in seventh grade. In eighth, her efforts redoubled; she learned that she was actually rather go...
Her soul was rich and deep, vibrant and true. An amber gold, like honey dripping off the spoon, or amber itself, within which life a million years past may reside.
Her soul was a summer sunset, catching all in its beams, fading, albeit sure to return; hard to look at directly, yet there were none who knew her and did not feel warm.
Her soul was autumn leaves carried away on a breeze, swirling a...