A Short Story

Verin watched a group of young soldiers grapple behind the mess tent. He split his time between checking on Fynta and offering pointers when one of the guys showed bad form. So far, comms were still offline to the group that had entered the temple, but Verin didn’t worry. Fynta was impossible to kill, and he had little stake in the others. Granted, he rather liked the Togruta. She’d fought well on Tython.

The Ghost Chamber is a ghost story about two men, Mr. Goodchild and Mr. Idle who spend a night in a haunted house (1). Late on the night of their arrival, Mr. Goodchild is visited by a strange old man while Mr. Idle falls asleep (1). The visitor relates to Mr. Goodchild the story of an avaricious man who married a widow for her money but inherits none of it after her death (4). Still determined to get his hands on her prosperity, he forges a will bequeathing the woman’s wealth to her daughter from a previous marriage (4). He appoints himself guardian of the weak and credulous child, and undertakes to provide for her an education administered in confinement (4). When she comes of age, he forces her to move in with him and get married (5). The

While the rest of the team had fallen asleep, I still laid awake lost in thought. We have already been on this plane for nineteen hours and thirty minutes. Which means we only have 20 minutes left on this horrible flight. I started to consider if we should've chosen a different airline, but then I realized I only dislike the 20 hours on this plane. I probably would've enjoyed this plane more if it wasn’t 20 hours. I don’t really know why, because I do enjoy the peacefulness I find on all planes.

The agent kept his gaze locked on Dave, while responding to her. “I have friends in the area.”

The muttered epitet escaped FBI Special Agent Carter's lips, and whisked through the cold night air as he stared down at the corpse. Despite his hopes when the call had come in, there was no doubt.

Bucky had begun his fifth circuit of their tiny living room when he heard the tell-tale thump of the busted step leading to their floor: the board was near-rotted underneath the worn carpet and always slid out a bit and back in each time you stepped on it.

“Hey, not bad,” Verin remarked as they entered the hangar where the Thunderclap sat. “That thing as roomy as it looks?” The bounty hunter radiated energy on a level that rivaled Fynta. Jorgan sympathized with the man. He clearly worried about his wife, but forced a cheerful facade for reasons Jorgan would never understand. Cormac did the same when he was nervous, whereas Fynta fought back with snark, and Dorne with research. Aric wondered if he had a coping mechanism, then remembered his reputation for being a hardass.

She'd been in his apartment for a matter of minutes, and Elena was already naked and about to sink to her knees to suck his cock. Brett couldn't help but feel a little guilt, and possibly shame, run through this veins, even as his erection throbbed in his pants. No one normally needing to pay a woman for sex him, and even though there was a purpose behind it, that still didn't sit well with him. Neither did the fact that his employee's dates usually at least wined and dined them first, with sex, if it occurred desert on top of the main for the client, rather than the purpose in itself. They were escorts, not prostitutes.

Two months later on a Saturday morning, Charlie threw a dish rag over her shoulder and answered the knock at her door.

She'd been in his apartment a matter of mere minutes, and Elena was already naked and about to blow him. Brett felt a touch guilty as his erection throbbed in his pants. Not accustomed to paying for sex, although there was a greater intent behind it on this occasion, it didn't sit well. Nor did the knowledge that the girl's clients usually accompanied them to a gala event that under other circumstances they'd never gain access to, or at least wined and dined them first. Sex was expected only as a sweet dessert to top off the main course. Brett was also a man who liked to take his time to ensure women enjoyed the experience as much as he did.

Jon was moving his room upstairs. Sure, it would be a smaller room, but still. He couldn’t deal with the two alphas in this house. Mainly when they were in rut, the grinding and growling from the two downstairs was distracting when he was trying to practice his violin, and not feeling weird and rutting against his own pillows, confused as he acted like he was in his heat with no other signs of being in heat. (-- removed HTML --)

I sat there waiting for Stradlater to come out of the bathroom for like two hours, but he never came. Finally, after like a total of three hours, he came out.

Ava got to work. The sheets came off the windows, leaving feeble, sheer, white curtains hanging from them. Light burst through the room. She opened the windows so fresh air flooded the room, catching the feather light curtains, blowing around her and suspending her in fresh serenity. A strong familiar scent came in from outside. She inhaled it until it was gone as quickly as it came, opening her eyes in bliss.

I trotted past some occupied tables, and saw a good spot to sit next to a window. There were a total of eight windows in the dining room, and a table was placed in front of each window. I recognized the man sitting in front of me because I worked with him in my Medical Careers class this year. Johnny Smith and his girlfriend strolled in and sat down a few tables to my right. The old athletic director from Mora was with his wife across the restaurant. Sitting at a circular table that was directly in the middle of the restaurant were six older people, three men and three women. The men were sitting together on the left side of the table, and the women were together on the right. I could hear them talking about politics. One of the women

“Hello, Mrs. Sappleton. I would like to apologize for leaving so quickly. Oh, and hello. What are your names?” Mr. Nuttel spoke behind Vera’s aunt, assuming the other three residents of the Sappleton home were supposed to be behind her. Mr. Nuttel had finally convinced himself that the three men he saw earlier that day, were just figments of his imagination. The men were dead, long dead, as Vera explained in her story, through a conversation of awkward small talk and waiting for Mrs. Sappleton to arrive home. He figured the middle-aged aunt was just a lamenting woman who was not well, and he wanted to spare her feelings.