Giving directions like “when the wind blows northeasterly, you’ll come to an old mansion with a crone sitting on the porch—turn the angle her nose points, then continue until a frog hits you in the face. I’ll be the one throwing the frog.”
Getting some grumbling acquiescence and annoyed tones for asking the medical staff in this tiny room to please mask because I’m high-risk for complications from Covid.
There’s no such thing as “bad luck” when you break a mirror.
You’re merely experiencing the terrified energy leaking off inter-dimensional creatures loosed through the glass-crack barriers as they lash out blindly, frantic to return home.
The sun, heart-achingly in love with its children, blows a kiss towards Earth.
The coronal mass ejection flings magnetic plasma into the solar wind, dismantling the electrical grid and communications infrastructure across the globe.
Hollywood teaches when female hackers get computer serious, the hair goes up. Sometimes it’s a ponytail; sometimes it’s a sloppy twist. But that’s how you know they now mean business.