For seven-ninety-nine a month they’ll rent you back your memories so that you don’t have to struggle to make new ones. I’d bought one of the first gen A.R. projectors. It ran interiors at four-K but had difficulty properly rendering weather. For the most part, I overlooked its shortcomings. It ran a maximum thirty minute nostalgic rendering so whether the clouds looked 2D up there in the big blue was of little concern.
The good professor eyed my dessert. He’d been quiet up to then, waiting for his order. He and his lady friend were delighted when their cold tomato soup arrived. Then he pointed to my wife’s plum and apple crumple and expressed interest. I noticed how he eyed my wife’s tits, too.
A spirit was upon the land and within the house and only one person was aware of it. Gunter Garth was connected with that spirit right from the first notice, drew it to him, set it on his soul, knowing the visitation was other-worldly. had its own destiny .. and only Time could play a part in two beings so enjoined.
I can’t wait to get it, the final one in the trilogy! I’m so desperate to read it but promised myself I’d wait until my birthday. It would be my main present again, like in previous years.
Eastern B.C.; nestled in the heart of the thick-treed Kootenays; a small, mountain town; winters cause hands to callous, to bleed.
Twenty minutes from town there is a small log home. A child and a lycanthrope live there. She is small, ashen, could disappear into the snow if it weren’t for her dark hair. They once lived with a woman, too. The woman didn’t know what the little girl knows, that the man they lived with turned into something uglier and beastlier when the white moon grew fat.
My wife never got over watching the second tower of the World Trade Center crumble to the ground from our apartment on the twenty-first floor on West 43rd Street in Manhattan. Nor did she ever get over the loss of her friends in Ladder Company No. 1 down the block. Each time we walked past the firehouse and saw the purple bunting draped across the garage bay we relived September 11th all over again.
The epiphany seized Sondheim at breakfast. The morning after he had seen, or rather dozed in part through, the Japanese movie on television. Scenes had flitted through his dreams and he was still in a vaguely Japanese mood as he descended to breakfast – or what he thought would be breakfast. There was none. To his query as to why not, his wife was dismissive. “My morning run,” she said; her white running shoes flashed briefly in the burst of sunlight before the door closed.