She must have known she was tempting the woods; one more flower they’re so pretty and peaceful she thought. What did she think in those final moments? Shotgun inhand, trigger clicking back and forth as her body shook; he could taste her fear. Then he leapt and time was frozen–he hung in midair teeth bared and tongue aflap, flying into a faceful of fire and buckshot.
He dove into a molten frenzy, tearing at the earth, emitting noises known only to the servants of the Dark One himself. He had been waitlisted, he told everyone so.
“I always write from my experiences, whether I’ve had them or not.” –Ron Carlson
“Fiction writing is very seldom a matter of saying things, it is a matter of showing things.” –Flannery O’Conner
Zest is what I live for: the moments of irony, subtlety, and beauty. A tragedy is to have every jolt and spark of these moments sucked out by a noxious melancholic fog; I emerge without hope or ambition; my vision clouded, the colors of the world, muted.