A high tower rose in the craggy wilderness, a vision in the night, a shadowy glove pointing at the sky with a bony, accusing finger. Like that, or a guy with really bad arthritis. Closer, one could see figures. Two figures. One figure with a figure, and one that was shaped more like a splinter.
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A wizzard, a bird, a pig. On a stroll yesterday with Henry and Fredrick, I told Fredrick, my parrot, to be sure to straighten his language a bit. His profanity was altogether embarrassing, though many marveled at his flair – – he could verbally outfox anyone with his erudite vocabulary peppered with competently placed cursing.
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One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible insect. –Franz Kafka, “The Metamorphosis” One night, when Grgrsmszzz woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his sleeping place into a horrible human the size of a bug–life inside the kitchen wall would never
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The trio of adventurers walked down the woodland path, still an hour away from their scheduled stop at The Screaming Wench. They were looking forward to tankards of Nexik’s best. They called themselves the Demihumans Three: Wild Weasel (halfling thief), Agnon (dwarven cleric), and Yerond (elven fighter). They were in a good mood, having just
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The wind was a constant, a dry, gritty west wind that in winter ranted and wailed across the prairie like a madwoman on roller skates. In the dead of summer it was almost always a sighing, an incoherent but incessant babble. There was madness, Mrs. R. thought, in that wind and in the empty horizon.
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