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"It's just too bad," folks would often say. At first, I thought it was just their way of coping; of merging their sickened condition into the general malaise of life. But what I know about this town now could kill.

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A true emerald wouldn't sparkle quite like that. No... this was new. Perhaps a geologic hybrid. Zachary tossed the object to Jen. "What do you think?"

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Samantha couldn't understand it. The numbers just weren't coming out right. For the first time in a long time, she faced losing a bowling match.

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Thomas sighed and tried to explain it again: "I don't know how I ended up here. I don't know how this works. All I can say for sure is I have to invent the self-healing egg shell."

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You awake in a gorgeous field. It's mid-morning and you feel the sun on your skin. You have clothes on but no shoes. You hear a nigger war cry in the distance... What happens next?

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"Imagine having so little foresight as to pull out fewer chicken wings from the freezer than you needed," thought Tom. The restaurant business was wearing on him.

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Angela was on her third night but was working on the same head of lettuce. Three days straight! "Fucking Romaine! Always too much," she uttered to the empty kitchen.

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James reflected on his previous encounter with Ralph: "The amount of chest hair I have is nobody's business but my own!"

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The early winter snow fell as large flakes, melting on the vastness of the store's parking lot. She turned the key in the lock and walked toward her car, parked under a lot light. "It's not your fault!" a man shouted from the edge of the forest.

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1955 was the last time he could remember dealing with this sort of scum. Back then, he was respected... back then, the town was more civilized. Despite reminiscing, he still caught the gun by the barrel before it fired on him. "They never think up any new moves," he said aloud.

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Only five pegs remained on the board. "Why me?" went his internal dialogue. The timer was down to 25 seconds.

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"It's too much," said Samantha. "I can't just take this from you - you have yourself to look after!" But Joey wouldn't be swayed. Unnoticed by either, the gift grew a fraction in size.

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The furniture in the abandoned house was missing, destroyed, or run-down... with one exception: a glass-topped coffee table in the living room. It gave off a brand-new otherworldly glow. Sarah approached it first.

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The three of us couldn't agree on what to do next. Ryan was bordering on hysteria and his judgement was... unsound. Jonathan was using the incident to advance his pet theories about the town. Mine was the only rational course of action.

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"I don't know enough about killin' to kill 'im," he told Tony. Tony stayed silent. He juiced a fourth orange with a handheld device. Time was running short.

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In the small room, there were two jars: one of piss, and one of vinegar.

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Somewhere about 15 miles south of town, where the train crosses, he came to. Again. This time he swerved off and came to a skidding halt in the gravel, hopped out, and made sure his boots were still in the back seat.

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"Most people get along just fine without dropping bodies each night," the detective thought to himself. "Damn these new breed of serial killers." The parallel thought at 3:00-odd AM was which he'd want to engage first: bacon, boobs, or bullets.

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He was at the end of his rope. He took the knife, and cut deeply into his own arm, ready to die. But instead of blood and muscle, he saw sap, and wood...

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It had been three years since The Weather had arrived. The city was desolate. All the businesses were up for sale, all the people were depressed, and there was no work. But were could you go? The Weather could happen anywhere, to anyone, at any time...

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Thumpity thump thump

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"But daaaad, I'm tiiiiired! That's the twelfth one today!" the little boy complained. His father, a hard, steel-eyed man, looked to the horizon: "Son, I told you once. Hangin' niggers builds character. Now c'mon, we got five more before sundown."

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Even the pizza tasted drab, like a black-and-white movie. The slice would never be finished; it and the paper plate slid into the trash can on his way out the door. This morning, Amy was going to pay.

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412 days. How long would this winter last? He replaced the kettle on the wood-burning stove and cupped his hands around the mint tea. "Only an hour more of stove time," he thought woefully. The IR scans would give him away beyond that.

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The sunlight trickled through his window, and he groaned and rolled over onto his left shoulder, only to find that his left shoulder and arm were no longer there...

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