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Max opened the box, and the marker told him that if he picked any other color he was a dead boy. The marker was absolute black and flashing bright like a TV screen stuck in the instant of being turned off. Static prickled Max’s fingertips when he touched it. “What color are you called?” Max asked.
When writing a review, a good reviewer usually hides far behind the words so readers can focus on the book or movie. But when it comes to a fitness regime like the Zombies, Run! 5k Training, it might be nice to know if the reviewer is a total jock with zero percent body fat and a college education paid for by track and field scholarships. I wish that was me.
I want to tell her about the rancid air. About the stinking, decaying bodies of the men and the woman who broke into our house. How much worse it is outside. How there are bodies lying on the road: adults, children, animals. Unrecognizable.
Without ever venturing into overt fantasy, Café Insomniac paints a fantasy landscape local to any city in the world in shades of sleepless deep grays and headlight yellow-whites.
We stepped into a burned, ravaged town exploding with guerrilla warfare. Infantry soldiers in full body armor fired weapons that emitted devastating pulses of plasma energy. I was in the midst of it, in the flesh! It would be one thing if Death had brought me along in non-corporeal form but I was actually there. I guess he wanted me to get the full effect, which I did.
With all the character transformations, it’s easy to forget that Boxers isn’t a superpower fantasy or mythology. It’s easy to forget that these were real people and real lives with modern, real consequences.
When said aloud, the term speculative poetry sounds not only niched but also very strange. The fact of the matter is, it’s awfully strange we need the term at all.
As squirrels prepare for winter, Jeff Wood returns to disturb your paradigms with “Fingernail Moon.”
Rabe McGeary outwitted half the west coast, but his addiction to money could end him. IF10 presents the conclusion of Martin Zeigler’s “Endsville, Pop. 2.”
A stranger’s last hour in New Orleans captures the organized chaos of jazz in Jay O’Connell’s “Snapshot.”