A loner carefully plies the dark arts in postbellum Virginia.
The hovel was only barely visible in the moonlight, appearing to cant to one side in a grove of ancient oaks. The shack didn’t have any windows, but thin lines of light outlined the doorway.
A lingering trail of smoke faded into the night above the roof.
Someone appeared to be home.
The truth about Apollo 11.
A gloved hand ripped through broken chunks of lunar basalt.
“Run!”
Just the way I wanted to start my day.
You roll the dice to escape.
Several planks were missing from the uneven and aged floor, but, when he heard the chainsaw start at the bottom of the attic ladder, he decided to take his chances.
Ten days until I go back to school — smiling anyway.
First contact.
Cleaning locomotive cowcatchers after runs through farm country paid the bills.
He was familiar with the usual remnants.
The ink has dried.
The extraterrestrials diligently constructed a Dyson sphere around the Sun, much to our chagrin.
