“Lights! Camera! Action!”
“Tamara, I’m not very good with words, but I guess what I’m trying to say is… Will you marry me?”
Tamara blushed convincingly. “Really?” she said. “Yes, of course!”
They kissed.
“That’s not how the script goes!” said the director. “Oh, I get it. Congratulations, you two.”
Twelve ravens settled on the field.
“Raaawk, twelve of us? Somethin’ big!” croaked Elwitch, the biggest raven.
“Death, death, raawk!” agreed Eegar, the oldest.
Esaud, the loudest, squawked, “Raawk, George, the farmer!”
George, left leg missing below the knee, hobbled past on crutches, with a shotgun slung across his back.
“I think I dropped it over here somewhere. It might’ve rolled under something.”
“You should be more careful.”
“I’m sorry! I don’t know how it happened!”
“You’re so absentminded… What did you lose this time, anyways?”
“My brain.”
“What? Are you out of your mind!?”
“No, it’s out of me!”
“See, Ma? Nogard’s got the mange!”
“You’re right, Cliven. Why didn’t I notice before? Dear, poor Nogard. You must itch something fierce!”
“What should we do, Ma?”
“We could treat it ourselves, but it looks pretty advanced. We should probably call the Veterinary Cleric. I’m pretty sure he treats dragons.”
Crowded around the flickering television, they watched in rapt anticipation. Desire swelled in their chests; hope waxed and waned with every advancement of the ball.
Now, victory was at hand.
Now, all was lost.
Minutes remained; then Hooray! It was over!
The home team had lost; let the rioting begin!
The heifer chewed her cud. It was thicker than yesterday’s. Oh, what was that? There was something crunchy in her mouth. Cud wasn’t supposed to crunch. Had she eaten something unusual this afternoon? The heifer couldn’t remember.
In the farm house, George softly rubbed his bandaged stump, already plotting revenge.
“Harold, there’s a gorilla in the walk-in closet!”
“I find that highly unlikely!” said Harold.
“It’s a silverback! It’s grabbing my hair!”
“Don’t tell fibs!” said Harold.
“Ow, my arm! It’s hitting me!”
“Oh wait,” said Harold. He grabbed a dart gun. “Sorry, I was reading the insurance policy wrong.”
After disarming the bomb in the locomotive’s engine, Evan Edgelow fought his way to the caboose, where the hostages were. He cut the car loose and began loading people into the bus.
“Where’s my kitty?” cried a distraught child.
Evan reached inside his jacket. “Right here,” he said.
Everyone cheered.
Flashing lights seared his eyes; sirens blared in his ears; acrid odours assailed his nostrils.
There was a pressure on his chest, a rhythmic, thumping, crushing pressure. Something popped. A flood of warmth rushed through his body. His chest expanded and contracted spasmodically. He was dizzy.
He retched.
He lived.
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