darynda-jones

Gemma Davidson,_ she answered, her voice as groggy as I felt. __here are you?_ I asked. __ho is this?_ __lvis._ __hat time is it?_ __ammer time?_ __harley._ __id you text me? Did your car break down?_ __o and no. Why are you doing this to me?_ She was funny. __heck your cell._ I heard a loud, sleepy sigh, some rustling of sheets, then, __t won__ come on._ __ot at all?_ __o. What did you do to it?_ __ ate it for breakfast. Check the battery compartment._ __here the hell is that?_ __m, behind the battery door._ __re you punking me?_ I heard her fumbling with the phone. __em, if I was going to punk you, I wouldn't simply turn off your phone. I would pour honey in your hair while you slept. Or, you know, something like that._ __hat was you?_ she asked, appalled.

For the first time in my life, I was in a shoot-out. A real, honest-to-goodness shoot-out with a bad guy. And, apparently, we both sucked.

The point is, stories can be all lengths. Never underestimate the power of __ess is more.