Storygram #21
The lightning storms had become our main threat. Streaks that would surround and surge through entire cities like a fog–a fog that was blinding and deadly.
Storygram #20
Every Sunday afternoon my grandfather would be sitting at the table, waiting for me with a checkerboard laid out and all of the pieces in their proper squares. You had to take a jump–that was the rule.
Storygram #19
My iron black hair and my silvery metal fist for a left hand were how the peasants knew me. As soon as I walked across the drawbridge and through the gate, everyone froze.
Storygram #18
She meant to get lost… Liz grew up in the Appalachian hills, but living in New York City for three years was making her claustrophobic.
Storygram #17
The legendary man who won’t die. His hero. His mentor. “I’m not telling you where he is.” She laughed too hard for his liking.