The Journal of Tomas Wicker November 3, 1910 There are a thousand ways to die in the Colombian rainforest. I first gained this appreciation as a boy when, in a questionable bit of parental inspiration, father allowed me to accompany him to inspect our family’s South American holdings, in particular […]
Joe slouched happily on his bar stool riding the best buzz of his life. Franky sat next to him, nervously scanning the room. “Holy shit, Franky. Just…holy shit. There was something in that last one. Dunno what it was but whoo mama! I gotta get me another one of those!”
“Hold the head steady, Mr. Walker, I don’t want to cock this up.” Swelling waves cause the ship to roll beneath my feet as I do my best to follow Professor Olik’s order. Unfortunately, the ox is not cooperating, and pulls jerkingly against the rope securely fastened to the ring
“Houston, come in. This is UN Space Station Libra. Come in, Houston.” No reply, just like every other time. I throw the receiver in disgust, the weightless environment causing it to float mockingly in front of my face at the end of its retention strap. I’m bathed in the soft
“You’re making a mistake.” “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Monahan. Our decision has been made.” “But…” “There’s nothing more to be said. Your final check will be in the mail tomorrow. Molly and I thank you for your services.” –click– Jack Monahan sat behind the desk in the
Of course everyone claiming residence in Arthur’s Wake knows tales associated with the Wicker House. It seems that every small province plays host to some structure of ill repute which, as if by supernatural magnetism, draws rumor of ghosts and bogies, wrapping the timber and stone of its foundation in
