A long time ago, someone scrawl’d the story of the dust men on the fire escape wall. It say dust men come an’ take our wives an’ children.

I saw them come for the bench, the one presented to Ruth on her retirement from teaching.

I stifled a yawn as I pulled up in front of my last customer of the day and turned off the engine.

Carrie Michaels reclined in the dry dirt of the lakeside, watching water spiders skitter across the green-tinted water.

“We really shouldn’t go near that place,” Katy said as Jacob led her toward the dark building in the middle of the abandoned village. “You know who lives there.”

Every serial killer should have a good, reliable, durable shovel. Even accidental serial killers.

They moved slowly, watching their footing. The waters of the Shahbazpur Channel had receded slightly, uncovering the ancient path the Ahmed brothers trod almost every day to the family paddies.

After we burned the beds in the backyard, I watched Bruce tie a rope around his wife to keep her from wandering off and falling asleep.

Not even an hour into Mare Imbrium’s two-week-long night, Commander Gordon Gooch III was snoring through the end of the world.

I’m proud to be a CopyKat. No, scrub that crap. To be proud, I’d have to care about what you tiny wittle mousies think.

Micah looked up and saw the contrast of blues on the horizon.

The helicopter was a patchwork of mottled camouflage contrasting with the flat black sections where it had been repaired.

The year is 2096. The setting could be anywhere. You won't be alive then. Read on.

The boy scout looked clean, even his hair. The jeans were worn but clean and the brown scout shirt almost new.

Chains and ropes creaked on the other side of the great gate. Beyond, Grade could hear the sounds of life and livestock, mingling with the rain.

I stand in the elevator, watch the floors click past: 22, 23, 24. Outside, the sweeping vista of Singapore’s neon nightscape flashes and sparkles.

I am thirty five years old. Two candle flames dance, reflected in Linda's pupils. I brush her hair.

I crossed the boundary line, entering familiar space as each breath of morning air drew knives into my lungs.

A human can survive twenty-one days without food. A snake can survive months, a crocodile a year.

This will be the last time I speak to you. As we stand here, the sun beats down; we have not seen night for months now.