Apollo’s eyes opened on a new day.
He felt as much of his joints and extremities as of his parting lashes, which is to say nothing at all.
Still, he flexed them as he would normally, and turned from the speckled void.
The sun rose over Earth, gilding Lake Victoria.
Beneath a waxy leaf, a borrower crouched.
She watched the gargantuan tabby carefully, pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail, and plotted.
The plan was to run to the other side of the field and scale the beans’ mailbox, but then this large fellow showed up.
Tossing the acorn from her pack served both to lighten her load, but also to distract the cat.
She had no time to see if it worked, so dashed and flung it as far as her thin arms would allow.
Halfway to the post, she felt a wave of hot breath from behind.
When I was a kid, I knew I wanted to be a writer.
I had (and still have) an infatuation with books, perhaps because of the limitless possibilities that lay inside.
My dad always nurtured my interests, but in interesting ways. One year, he gave me a collegiate-level writing style guide for my birthday.
My mom would take us to the library to borrow stacks of books, and she must have known my affinity for empty journals, because I had more notebooks than I knew what to do with.
Today, I develop websites, but it pays for my reading habit.
Little Fiction 