Damien didn’t care if the mango juice covered half his face and made his hands and cheeks sticky–he was starving.
The silhouette of black dunes against a distant horizon. Columns of ash and fire rising high into the stratosphere to support a canopy of rolling black clouds. That’s what Alton Brannon saw as he surveyed the alien and blasted landscape of that distant moon.
Attina splashed out of the surf on four shaky limbs, then stood. She tottered on her strange flat feet. She missed the buoyancy and support of the water around her, found the act of inhaling and exhaling thin air exhausting, and already disliked the weight of her body pressing her feet into the hard, dry ground.
In the darkness, shadows stirred.
Sleep never came easily to Angela and this was a particularly difficult night. Arms and legs tangled in sheets while she tossed and turned. Her traitorous brain was intent on reliving every painful memory it could dredge up.
The phone rings at three o’clock in the morning. It’s on the coffee table, face down. Light leaks from underneath it. If I turn it over, it’ll be flashing Vince’s photo. At three o’clock in the morning, it’s always Vince.