The tank on the bike had cracked when it spun into the curb. I hadn’t slid as fast, and my helmet had absorbed most of the impact, but I was still reeling. I couldn’t stand all the way up.

My camera was struggling to keep up. It didn’t know whether we were taking extremely bright photos or carefully-exposed dark photos, and it kept landing somewhere in-between: highlights completely blown out and shadows dark and featureless.

I am a baker by trade, but if I had not been brought up in the midst of flour and yeast I know that it would have found my way to the loaves sooner or later. What other food contains such a balance of savory flavor and light sweetness? I have eaten much, and found nothing that compares.

At least it was cold. Truly cold. Kill you in an hour or two cold. Better to go quickly than to drag it out. You never knew exactly how long it took when you found the body the next morning, but you could tell when it was long and drawn out.

I radioed into Central, and their response was music to my ears: “Hold for 30 more seconds, then give them everything you’ve got.”

I clicked the seconds off, subvocalizing the words, “Twen-tee-eight, twen-tee-nine, ther-tee!”

My restaurant booked as much business the next weekend as we had done all winter the year before. The joke was really on me. I found myself faced with the task of making everything into a potato-chip thin slice of browned perfection, then plating it so it appeared rare, gourmet, and, dare I say, mysterious.

The poor animal had waded right into the middle of a nearby bog. It was already up to its forelocks by the time we reached it, and we got there just in time to see its mouth stretching up for a few final breaths. Nobody slept well after that.

My toes dug into the crumbled pavement of this ancient place and my whole body buzzed with the knowledge that the hours of tense buildup were about to be redirected towards all-out exertion.

New canon fire cracked through the storm from well ahead of me. The balls crashed into both ships as a new vessel emerged over the top of an enormous wave. It rolled over the crest of the wave, then scudded down the front, gathering speed in a horribly ponderous, unstoppable charge.

I was nearing the outskirts when it started to rain. The roads, already terrible, turned into a sucking, squelching network of muddy rivers. There were no cobblestones, no boardwalks, and no way out except through the mud. I trudged along, weaving slowly through bogged-down carts.

They were wrapped in multiple layers of cellophane, but it could only do so much against the torrents outside. This client had made a special request for extra glitter, and it was getting everywhere.

My dead car was just a dot behind me, so I had walked pretty far, but there was no way I was getting out. The best thing I could do was to find somewhere to shelter that wasn’t a threadbare ’84 convertible.

I stood before it now, just minutes before the doors would open and a specially-selected set of enthusiasts and old friends would fill the room to witness this mysterious relic on display for the first time ever.

Most riders made the mistake of thinking that your orientation was the same as your direction. Not true. I could feel the bike drifting away from where I wanted it. The ground was rushing up, but I had no way to change my angle.

The bunker was only a few yards away. I paused again. Nothing. The sound of voices couldn’t carry that far. I walked more quickly now.

I knew how it would end now. Thirst. Cracked skin. And the unbearable heat.

I peruse and purchase. Both hands are full now, weighed down by bags of produce and soon-to-be soup ingredients. What I need is a smoke break.

The pine trees would be slashed and left gaping. Green needles littering the floor, sap sticky and fragrant, and in the middle of it all, some gory detail: a boot, a glove—all that was left of a lonesome hiker.

The waves lashed the side of the boat. 45. The years pass quickly even as the hours pass more slowly. I started thinking about the novel I wanted to write.

Midway through the second round. Breathing heavy. Jab. Dodge his response. Jab. Follow him as he stepped away. Jab-jab-jab. Still not landing any hits.