The instrument was created only for citizens of the village. There were no teachers, no songbooks, and no one knew how to play it.
At the bottom of the ditch all they could see were hundreds of rabbit faces peering from above.
The forecast promised hail the size of kittens, instead there was only carnival, only ever carnival.
They saw it, tall, made of bark and twisted sticks, vines with thorns. It stepped back into the trees.
They leaned back in their chairs at precisely the same moment. They raised and lowered their pipes with the same orchestration.
After the town meeting they turned into werewolves and agreed to grab a beer or two.
There were so many evil things stacked up in the well, the farmer decided he’d need to dig a new one, a deeper one.
The light shined through the delicatessen windows like delicious velvety fat.
Lord Austin displayed his prototype for the commemorative statue with pride, despite the vomiting, seizures, and fits of insanity it caused.
Slats of wood were placed over the open hole but they could still hear the occasional muffled cry.
The ridiculous, macabre sea disaster tales were good around the campfire, but when it came to actual cannibalism he was rather squeamish.
From the top of the stairs they saw nothing but rats.
At the intersection they found large amounts of smashed glass and what looked like blubber.
He pulled back his arm, and grunting, threw the key as far as he could into the river.
Everyday his walk took him past an abandoned mine, the old mansion, and a coffin factory.