fountain pen
'Nancy Walker?" asked the man at the desk. "Yes," admitted Nancy, already concerned by the man's demeanor, the way he glanced her up and down, like he was considering whether she would fit in to one of the luggage racks.
fountain pen
Nancy Walker had never been described as sane, yet that is exactly how she described herself, in capital letters, under her graduation photo at the back of her yearbook. Besides a platitude from her neighbour, who walked to and from school with her, it was the only comment in the book.
story
He sits on the log, a stump really, one hand gripping the scabbard, and the other sliding the blade in and out, no doubt imaging that each thrust is into some enemy, maybe one that his father defeated, or more likely, one bigger and tougher, one that only he could
short
The log exploded. Black vespers curled out, slinking and snaking towards Dad. He waved the splitting maul through the dark tendrils and they burst into fine particles. The glass orb at the butt of the maul flashed bright blue, like the after image of a lightning strike. Any time I