Sample from Book 1 of the Pandora's Resurgence trilogy, the first part of the Warthian Chronicles series.
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Scene 1 Of Separate Realities and Clown Abuse

Imagine traveling down a road at night before stopping right at a crossroad. There are three paths you can take; one to the left, one to the right, and a third straight ahead, the entrance of which is being illuminated by your cars headlights. Being new in town, you aren't sure where any of these roads lead, so you decide to pick one at random. Five minutes and one session of eenie-meenie-miney mo later, you find yourself now traveling down the left road, constantly staring up at the billowing black clouds in the sky ahead. Rain begins to fall, causing fog and mist to glue itself to your front window, turning your late-night vehicular adventure into the equivalent of a blind man in a game of hide-and-seek. Positive it will make you feel better, you turn on the radio only to then turn it off immediately after hearing a nightmare inducing, high-pitched girlish voice utter the word, "Mmmmbop!"

It is less then a minute later that, in a now less-then-pleased-but-not-exac tly-foul kind of mood, you are forced to stop the car because, by sheer accidental timing and luck, you seem to have drove into, run over, and possibly even killed a living, breathing creature. You quickly get out of your car and begin to slowly creep towards it's back end, thoughts like, "Oh, no! I killed something!", "I could get arrested for this!", and the very frequent, "Maybe it's a clown? Ya! It's gotta be! Oh, god, let it be a clown, please! No one cares if you kill a clown, right?", all racing through your guilt-ridden mind. You stop at the trunk and close your eyes, your heart beating rapidly, for this was the moment of truth. You tilt your head down so it's facing the ground and the most recent victim of the instantly fatal, worldwide disease Vehiculum Runoverosis.

You open one eye

and, instantly, the other eye opens in shock, as does your mouth into a wide open, fly-catching position. There, lying dead under the back wheel of your car, is a small, grayish-brown puppy. You kneel down, putting a few fingers under it's name tag to help you read it better.

It said "Spotz".

You begin to cry, tears first flowing down your cheeks before turning into an emotional waterfall of sorrow, regret, and a strong resentment that it wasn't a clown whose neck had been snapped in half by a rapidly moving Goodyear brand tire.

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