I saw nothing when I looked through the eyepiece Franz handed me and told him so.
“Of course not,” said Franz. “Right now, the time sight is set to look into the future. From this point in time, the future doesn’t exist yet, not in any meaningful way, so it can’t be seen.”
Rated R. Contains explicit sex, cruelty, and immoral dining.
For all that, his manners were impeccable. It wasn’t that he sat slobbering and gnashing, drawing attention to himself as some deranged Neanderthal with a fork might have done. No, he ate demurely, quietly, chatting with her, truly interested in what she had to say (or at least feigning interest so well that she would never notice the difference). Dinner with him lasted the entire evening. The courses came and went — soups, hors-d’oeuvres, first course, main course, cheese course, desserts and coffee, liqueurs. She would not have noticed right away that he had eaten an extra course, or more than one dessert, or consumed an entire bottle of wine on his own and helped her with half of another. Simply, he ate. And ate. And ate. And ate.
The fact is, almost any new knife can cut through an aluminum can and then slice a tomato with equal ease. Don’t believe me, buy a new cheap knife and try it yourself. The pitch man hacks through a tree branch. He cuts a radiator hose. And this ho-hum humbug works. If he hammered a nail with his shoe people would buy nine pair, as long as they came with a free shoehorn and an extra pair of laces.
Rated G. Contains cattle theft, kidnapping, and crimes against fashion.
“That truly is a fine heifer, and any man would be proud to own her.”
“Well…” said Jack, hope rising. “I suppose she might be for sale, if that is your meaning.”
“It is.” The stranger dug inside the pocket of his slick and shiny coat, and brought out a small lead case. The lid clicked open and he turned in over in his hand, three shimmering beads rolling in his palm. He offered them to Jack.
“What are those?” Jack frowned, suspicious once more.
“What are they? They might be beans.” The stranger laughed. “Then again, they might be more precious than rubies, mightn’t they? Truth of the matter, I’m not certain what they are, only that they are beyond any worth you can imagine.”
Rated PG. Contains slight profanity, drug use, and violence against were-ape ninjas.
“Foul temptress?” I said, stepping back, clanking in my armor. A suit of plate mail often appears when I’m startled. I wished the armor away and replaced it with soft green leggings and a deerskin shirt. “Wily seductress?”
“Damsel in distress.” She leaned against a tree, hands clasped before her.
I clutched my stick and looked around. “Immediate distress, or general distress?” I worried about ogres, or killbots. They often menace damsels, and when the wind’s wrong, you can’t smell them coming, neither rotten meat nor engine oil. It’s hard to hurt an ogre or a killbot with a staff, but I’m useless with a sword. I used a blade on my first few outings, but after chopping off my feet six times, I switched to a stick.
Rated R. Contains violent themes and images.
The clicks and squeals in his head subsided. No one else could understand them except him. No one else could even hear them. But they’d always been there, ever since he could remember. They hadn’t meant anything at first, not until he was older, well into his teenage years. They said terrible things — disturbing things — but still he could ignore them, even if he didn’t dare tell anyone about them.
Rated PG. Contains no sexual content or strong language. Does contain whirling blades of death.
A razor-sharp blade shot out of the wall and whipped in front of the teen’s face. Xnab hauled him back and spun him around.
“First thing you have to learn in this business: never kick anything. Got that?”
“Yes sir. Sorry sir.”
“Good.”
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“What’s the second thing?”
I never doubted Dolly would place high. Best of Breed at the very least. When it came to official conformation standards, my Airedale bitch made other dogs look like pigs and weasels.
Rated PG. Contains violence, supernatural themes, and sailors who do not swear.
On the morning after his death, a clear fluid began to leak from the Jenny’s mainmast: slow, glistening droplets that curled out and ran downward from where the knives were stuck in the wood. “It’s water,” said the ship’s cook. “But not fresh. Salt. Like blood.”
“Not like blood,” said Big Tom, who had also tasted it. His cheeks were sunken, and his eyes were hollow and dark. “Not like blood — like tears.”
“Would you notice if I was replaced by an alien?” your girlfriend Heather asks over her Greek salad.
You’ve been dating for eight months. Surprises in the relationship are rare now, but this catches you completely off guard. “What?” you say.