Storygram #160
Quincy took a deep breath and reached for the stack of cards, struggling to keep his eyes focused enough to guide his hand. He had entered the tavern with 18 pieces. Now, most of it was either in his bottle or on the table.
Storygram #159
Tree limbs scrape my face as I dash through a dense forest. Glancing over my shoulder, I can see nothing in the fog, but I can hear their dogs closing in on me. I pick up my pace to a treacherous speed.
Storygram #158
His poetry had found its way all over the world but not from his voice. Inspired by the stories of desperate castaways, he began slipping short poems into an empty bottle and tossing them into the bay. They floated along currents, changed course in storms, and came to rest in the hearts of thousands.
Storygram #157
Tillius Whitehall jotted down notes as fast as he could. He was the only one allowed to interview the trolls, and he wanted to make certain he accurately conveyed their grievances to the public. “So, Mr. Boggledung, are you saying that your people have never eaten any humans?”
Storygram #156
The shotgun shells spilled onto the floor. With shaking hands, he bent down to grab a handful of them, shoving them into his coat pocket. The gun itself was so old and dusty that he wondered if it would fire at all, but he loaded it anyway, fumbling shells into the chamber.