He pecked at his keyboard furiously. You’d think with as much as he wrote, he’d be better at typing than he was, but he was still terrible. It didn’t matter. He had to get the rest out before he lost it. There were only fifty more words to go.
These were the finishing touches to a month long writing exercise that he wasn’t sure he’d finish. Now that he was close, he wanted to get it done quickly. He wanted to go out on a high note. Was this it? Was this right? Did this really work?
“Uhh, dude, your hand’s on fire.”
The man with the burning fingers did nothing to quell the flames. Instead, he grinned. “That’s nothing,” he said. “Watch this.”
The flames suddenly expanded. They rose up and began dancing around his arm. Suddenly, they covered the man’s entire body. Then, the fire just disappeared. The man grabbed the bottle of water and his change off the counter. “Thanks, buddy.”
The gas station attendant didn’t respond, just watched him leave in a stupor. When he turned back around, he was even more perplexed. His cash drawer was still open…and empty.
He put full power to his engines, but the missile was still gaining on him. His fighter juked left and right, up and down. The missile stayed with him. He was running out of time. If he didn’t do something soon, he was dead. Out of desperation, he killed his engine and steered the fighter straight down. The missile passed him by, but began to turn to reacquire his ship.
The maneuver may have worked against the missile, but it also put him right in the path of an enemy fighter. Could he pull up in time?
I don’t know if you knew this, but a hundred miles per hour is fast. His first pitch hit that on the radar gun. The next two didn’t. It was entirely possible that he was throwing another offspeed pitch, but I didn’t think so. The count was one ball and two strikes. He usually threw his curveball as his strikeout pitch, but he wouldn’t this time. A fastball was coming. I felt it in my gut.
The wind-up. The pitch. I swung. The crack of the bat. The ball was sailing to deep centerfield. Would it have the distance?
He watched as the barbarian halfling maiden skipped away. Once she was out of sight, he turned to the zombie they’d been fighting. “Well,” the dwarven priest began, “what do you want to do now?”
“Yeah, I know. Stupid question.”
Rothan sat down on the porch and wondered how long before the halfling maiden came back, if she ever did.
He watched in horror as it slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor. “Oh God,” he whispered. “I dropped the soap.”
From behind him he heard laughter. He spun around and was faced with someone checking him out. “I think that’s only a problem,” his admirer said, “if you’re in prison.”
He rolled his eyes at his wife and bent down to get it. As he wrapped his hands around it, he felt her poke one of his butt cheeks. “Who’s your daddy?” she cackled.
Was she there? Was she watching him? Did she see everything he did? Did she look upon him with pride? Did she see the pieces of herself within him? Those pieces he held closely, afraid to let them go.
Was she there? Did she know how much he wished she was?