John checked the mailbox.

"Hey. It's me. Message?"

( Cut for character death. )

John was in the garage, about to weld a new bracket for an engine swap he was working on when a light brighter than any searchlight flooded the garage, nearly blinding him through the welding mask ( Read more... )

Summer had cooled off, and the weather seemed to cry out it was fall ( Read more... )

John came awake from a light doze in the back of the vehicle, looking around as if expecting something, a half-remembered dream fading away.

"Werechicken?"

John was cursing quietly but fiercely, enough that those at neighboring tables were giving him the evil eye that he was harshing their caffeine buzz, but not enough that he would be escorted out ( Read more... )

John had survived robot attacks. Dinosaurs. High school. Cubefarms.

It took small pocket-watched-bodied dingbots to break him.

"No! Stay out of the egg dye!"
This was worse than 'bots in green beer.

[Open!]

The truck was old, rusty, foreign, loud, and smelled of french fries. It may even have been blue or gray at one point; it was hard to tell.

Now, it was white, and dingy white, and slushy white,and black tires, and red snowplow; it was the most glorious sight to be seen in the neighborhood because it was a plow truck, it was working, and it was ( Read more... )

"NO! Stop that! Why won't you turn off ( Read more... )