He coughs, choking on a piece of broken lung, stealing my breath. I lift my head to a room illuminated by the ashes of a dead sun. He cracks his mouth to speak, only bits of flame escape. He has wings, dark wings, sprouting from his shoulders. It on the Rain by Susan Poorbaugh Miranda looked through the sunroof at the dark, angry clouds rolling aggressively across the sky.
Clouds form, they dissipate, and form again.
That's not what I mean. Just forget it. Miranda reclined and settled in the comfortable leather seat of the Lexus. She put on her sunglasses and feigned sleep so she could avoid any more conversations with Evan. She hated when they spatted like that.