The beefy body of Ira Rinks convulsed and sliced sweaty lines through the lake of grime on the cell floor. With all of his inhuman strength he breathed and writhed and fought off the surging tremors that wracked his entire quivering body. He felt the muscles in his face constrict, twist and then take on a new shape. His jaw narrowed and stretched until it jutted outward enough to resemble the muzzle of an ugly dog. His arms spasmed and contracted, shortening his powerful biceps into the crooked forelegs of a beast. All along these anfractuous limbs sprouted up tufts of tough hair, coarse as frayed copper wire. 

The hills across from the train station were round, oblong and white. On the side facing the station, there was no shade, no trees to protect the ground from the hot sun. Everything on this side of the hills was fried, dry and brown. On this particular day, it was hot. Hotter than you could imagine. Hotter than hell, if you believed in that sort of thing.

Manny had been comatose for more than three years before he told me about the trolley man. I wish he had kept his mouth shut.

On the north side of the bustling city lived a family named Snivers. They weren’t a large family, but they were a tight one. A pair of newlyweds. A beautiful baby girl.

They say that really good art sucks you in. I really hoped, especially in this case, that it wasn’t true.

The Moon was the first thing I saw when I opened my blurry eyes. It was enormous, the biggest I had ever seen it. It was a strong, yet unhealthy looking yellow color. Striking and, at the same time, vacant. The way that a cats eyes look right before you finish running the rest of it over beneath your truck tire.