by Mr. W
He sat at his battered oak desk. The house was quiet; he could hear the dryer rumbling in the basement. His brow furrowed, and on a yellow legal pad, he carefully wrote:
- A Starburst of Glass, a Halo of Blood
- Unspooling into Crumpled Sheet Metal
- The Dull Snap of Broken Bone
- A Severed Hand Grips the Wheel
He paused, ripped the paper from the pad, savagely balled it up. These would make terrible titles for his children’s book.