I was 6 or 7 when I knew the only thing that gave me blissful, tummy fluttering excitement was making stories. I loved when the teacher said we were going to write a story in class, because I imagined robots fighting, thieves and ninjas sneaking, heroes flying and me jumping around in it all, a…
I’m sat at a desk in the study area, working on some things for my blog and writing projects, when I suddenly notice that there is a beached whale on the desk across from me.
We went to a BBQ joint near the local train station, a seedy looking place on neither the right side or the wrong side of the tracks, because it was right under them.
Together they spent some time selecting and tracking suitable characters for Ramses to turn. He drove the pickup slowly down the street, looking for individuals he judged worthy. This consisted of those who looked like they had no one to miss them in the mortal world and who could hold their own when the supernatural shit hit the metaphorical fan.
It’s strange, moving on from a whole period of your life and knowing it is over. Some parts make me sad. I’m sure I’ll never face that group of friends in quite the same way, for example. Yet, I can’t help being happy about it and eager to start the next leg of the journey.
Well, it’s nice to have a break. I forgot about those. You know, those periods of time where you can choose what to do
She turned to see a man dressed in a similar set of overalls to her acquired set. He stood a few inches taller than her, which made him over 6-foot. Most of his face was hidden under a peaked cap.