We examined every moderately noticeable imprint in the ground for traces of him.
This game is not good. I played it a lot.
In eighth grade, I believed that a bolt of true pain would give me a new understanding.
We might be able to conjure up crayon-drawn cartoon depictions of its worst manifestations, but that’s where we stop.
I feel beautiful and wicked—flying fast and fearless.
The moment where no one can explain the monster is crucial to the payoff—inexplicable, supernatural evil must remain forever believable, yet disprovable.
Some say she kills the men; in Honduras, she usually makes them go crazy.
We’d set off toward Kice Island and everything would go as planned.
I love my two little carpet sharks with all of my heart, but being a ferrant is exhausting.
Listen, book, your aesthetic can’t be both “lazy Warhol knockoff” and “grandpa forced to take a photo at Ye Olde Wild West Land.”