She strode down the corridor, Gravboots beating a driving rhythm, her Sikshooter clanging warning bells off her generously curved hip. Ready for transport down to the moon, Arizon’, she suspected the Space Cowboy Coalition was playing them for fools. No profit, but maybe an adventure. She’d arranged her own transport.
They lower their sails and drop anchor, knowing they will not catch the evening sun bright on the kitchen hearth. Oars creak and echo in the deep green of the peninsular waters, splash and scrape as the dingy is hauled up the pebbled strand.
More than powerless: feckless. More than feckless: foolish.
Not foolish: mere spot on a distant edge of
It arrived by nighthawk, the final ingredient to heal or conceal the corruption that blasted Middle Earth.
“If believing makes it so, we have double-hope. We shall see, anon.” She gripped the blue button, and shuffled up the hill.
“Psst!” A slender hand with petal pink nails beckoned from behind the Waterford crystal waterfall.
Not my usual stomping grounds, this high-end what-not-ery store had me intimidated…and challenged. This illusion had to be so good, it was real. I skittered behind the waterfall.
Writing and Stuff by Chris Hall - Storyteller and Accidental Blogger
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Valley of the Trolls 