Red lights glow in outlying huts of the tiny village of Paanai-phat. Red lights signify the deadly fever is high, though flood waters have receded somewhat. Further out, hearth fires have been snuffed with no family alive to feed them. Continue reading
Dirk’s long, strong hands grasped the green, held over the deep-brown bamboo bowl, and tore in lingering, sensuous movements. Lettuce had never looked so inviting. Continue reading
Dripping slabs of watermelon are handed to overheated children, and hailstorms rip through vinyl siding. Continue reading
“There it is again,” they whispered. A low bellow moaned from the depths below. Continue reading
Leadbelly sidled up to the bar, tossing a small leather bag on the counter. His boot hooked over the bar rail, spurs jangling, as he leaned toward the buxom barkeep. Continue reading
Pushing the goggles back on her forehead, she waved away the acrid smoke and smiled. Continue reading
Smokey sighed and sniffed the shirt front and wide-brimmed hat of the abandoned Park Ranger uniform. It had been dropped near the scenic overview, next to the Michigan-plated Lexus. Betsy likely hadn’t even noticed that her guide had paws, not hands and feet.
Cold. Literally frozen to the bone. Not that I’m whining. Not that I can do that anymore. Continue reading
A bowl of nuts dominated the coffee table, a nutcracker standing sentry, ready for service. Three wooden bowls with three types of crackers surround the cheese log, like wise men around The Child. Continue reading
She’d traversed the mountain, her skis crackling and sparking as she streaked down the final slope. Just a few kilometers more across the icy flatlands; she would reach the Hold before full sunrise. Continue reading
She strode down the corridor, Gravboots beating a driving rhythm, her Sikshooter clanging warning bells off her generously curved hip. Ready for transport down to the moon, Arizon’, she suspected the Space Cowboy Coalition was playing them for fools. No profit, but maybe an adventure. She’d arranged her own transport.
They lower their sails and drop anchor, knowing they will not catch the evening sun bright on the kitchen hearth. Oars creak and echo in the deep green of the peninsular waters, splash and scrape as the dingy is hauled up the pebbled strand.
Silence all around, but for the slow creak of frogs from the moonlit marsh, and the crackle and sudden pop from the dwindling campfire. A late night wind twined soothing fingers through the dark pines, but hesitated and hovered above the group gathered below.