Chapter 5 of an original comedy web serial about a young, rather uptight law associate who inexplicably wakes up one morning with wings, and his sarcastic but loving and loyal best friend--EXCERPT: "Are you talking about your wings?" Sawyer asks. She's not whispering at all. In fact, her voice sounds insanely loud to me. "Shhh!" I hiss, glaring, and then look around the train car nervously. "Are you insane?" I say through my teeth. "Shut. Up." "Dude, chill. I'm just making sure I understand what's going on here. Besides, no one cares," Sawyer continues. "This is Boston, not Smallfrytown with gossipy old ladies and nosy, bored, retired old-timers. But hey, if it makes you feel better, we could come up with a code name for them. You know, I was just listening to Iron Maiden yesterday--how about Icarus?" The Iron Maiden is a medieval torture device and Icarus is a character from Greek mythology. I can see the connection with Icarus, but the torture device? On second thought...maybe that's accurate.
Chapter 4 of an original comedy web serial about a young, rather uptight law associate who inexplicably wakes up one morning with wings, and his loyal, sarcastic but loving, carefree best friend. Shenanigans ensue--EXCERPT: "'When are you going to fly again?' I ask, tossing the ice pack onto the boring side table with the slim, metal lamp that looks about as stable as a paperclip. 'I promise I won't faint again.' Dex turns his head without actually looking at me. 'Sawyer,' he says, voice tight. 'The varnish.' 'Huh?' 'The ice pack. The condensation will ruin the varnish.' Varnish? Dex can fly, has wings, and he's worried about varnish?!
Chapter 3 of an original comedy web serial--EXCERPT: "Oookay, buddy," Sawyer says, holding her hands up and looking at me like I'm a wild, skittish animal who might bolt. I have wings. Maybe I will bolt. Feeling tremendous pressure to assure her that I am not insane, I shoot to my feet, which wracks me with that horrible sensation as my wings emerge out of the floor and slide through the wall behind me as I rise. My quick move has unforeseen consequences.
Depression is more like grief. It's a crushed feeling. A grinding into dust. A shattering. A grating apart like flour forced through a sifter. A parasitic tapeworm of the soul. A weight on my chest, so heavy I can hardly breathe, producing the panic of an asthma attack, as if I am about to die.