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Grilled Cheese is a product of Village Compute

Version devBuilt at: 2026-10-16 08:00:47 EDT

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Cat opened and closed her mouth a few times, wanting someone to argue with, but Dray’s words were true. The dragon was relaxed and unconcerned.
“Is all well?” Bert asked suddenly, his eyes still closed.
Cat stifled herself, a choking sound holding back her tears. “All is well, Bert,” she managed to get out. “How do you feel?”
“Hot. Cold. My mind is… fuzzy. Fuzzed?” He folded his body up to a sitting position, finally opening his eyes. The brightness of the early morning hurt them after being closed so long. “Where are we?”
Cat looked to Dray and the Earth Mother before answering. “At a stone circle, not far from Sue’s Manor. What do you remember?”
“Sana,” Bert said, holding back tears himself. “Our deal with Arnaud. Meeting you on the field outside Cadenport. I’m not sure what else after…” He trailed off.
“Not gone, then,” the Earth Mother said quickly.
“But his learning is,” Dray said just as quickly.
The Earth Mother nodded.

Rhodie waited, perched on the charred old stile while Jonny took off his helmet. Uphill, the boarded-up mobile home sagged on the foundations of the old farmhouse.
He grinned at her. “Man! Haven’t ridden one of these in, what? Six or seven years, at least.” He swung a rangy leg off and stood. He cracked his back.
When he leaned back, Rhodie caught a glimpse of tight abs and blonde fuzz under the hem of his Phoenix Suns t-shirt. “Surprised a Dudley like you rode one at all.”
Jonny cocked his head. “That supposed to mean?”
“Just, you always color inside the lines.” Rhodie picked some autumn flower she didn't recognize, tucked it behind her ear.
He frowned. “What the lines are for, right?”
“Nope. Lines are made to be crossed. Stray off the beaten path sometime. Never know what you’ll find.”

Stock photo of a cowboy on a horse, herding a bunch of wild horses, surrounded by kicked up rosy dust. Photo is labeled “Cory” and represents Cory Mercer from my m/m romance novel wip, SmokeWIP

I wouldn’t give back my time with Marc for the world. I think back to the days of foot massages and tickles, smiling as tears fill my eyes. I don’t know if they’re tears of joy or sorrow and figure it’s probably a little of both; grief tears. I hope to always remember the warm, fuzzy, feeling he gave me. Time has a way of either erasing memories or clouding them. I can still close my eyes and be with him, still feel him and smell him, and I hope that never becomes fuzzy. I need those memories. They’re all I have left.

His eyesight has always been better than mine. That's yet another thing I can't get fixed; it's even more nonessential than correcting my blood condition. I've learned to live with my world being blurred at a distance, and my shoddy vision is one reason I don't mind sitting on the dune with Pablo as three people prepare to row out to their deaths. I'll see the tentacles rise from the water, see the vague shape of the unfortunate souls as they're dragged from their vessel into the churning sea, but I won't see the gory details. The blood, the chunks of flesh, the severed limbs; those will be lost to my sight.
I will hear their screams, but not everyone cries out when the devils find them. I wonder which these fishermen will be.

Wraith and the Revolution is available wide.
https://ajcalvin.net/books/wraith-and-the-revolution/

Excerpt from Song and Dance, a sage Owen romance novel wip. Text as follows:

The light creak of a hinge preceded Billy in the doorway, and at the sight of him, Lark forgot the book completely. He wore only a towel around his hips, covering from his navel to just above his knees. He had a second smaller one to hand scrubbing his hair dry, but he froze mid-motion when he saw her, like he hadn't expected her there.
"Well." He said.
"Well." She echoed, and just like wanting to have him alone, she made a point of letting him see her taking it all in and admiring him.
He was built strong, sturdy, without an underwear model's crisp sculptural muscle definition. Sandy-colored hair clung to glistening damp skin. The only thing she could critique was the fuzzy outline of a t-shirt where his chest wasn't as sun-kissed as his arms and face. No, Billy was old-fashioned. He wasn't the sort to get his shirt off at every opportunity.
He hovered in the doorway, uncertainly resumed drying his hair, dropped the little towel in the laundry, and raked his hair back with a hand.

They waited for the pot to gurgle. Tully returned to the truck for aluminum camp mugs, spoons, and packets of sugar and dry creamer. He also brought a battery-operated lantern and plopped it down in the middle of the group, right beside the hot plate. The sky drifted toward black and the stars appeared one after the other, like divas gracing a stage. The diva of divas was the Milky Way, which Hostetter hadn't seen in years. Too much light pollution, a point against the modern world. The river of stars angled across the black like a thick painter's stroke of fuzzy grays and blues, its constituent stars marked as millions of diamonds in white, blue, and red. So haunting and vast, that eternity above. How could it be threatened by one angry beast beyond nature's bounds?

Image without text for Cruel Cherub (Pretty Broken Things Book 2) shows a young white man with white hair and blue eyes, wearing a sleeveless hoodie and sitting on a backward chair in a warehouse.

Vela with her red dress and sunhat standing in front of the observatory on a windy day. Holding her smartledger and looking to the side.

“Oh.” This isn’t what I expected at all. “Uh, yeah. He said some other names. A few of them, actually. Mil-“
“WAIT!” Val shouts suddenly, and I nearly jump upright in alarm, along with everyone else in the dining hall. I turn on him, angry at the noise and the unwarranted alarm, and I see him holding up both his arms in placation.
“Wait! Please, listen, this is important! Before you say anything, you said he mentioned several names for you?”
“Yes?”
“Well, alright, but I need to be very clear on this, you can not tell anyone your full set of names, ever! Use only one or two, your main name and your father’s family name. Never say your full name out loud to anyone, not even members of the Formless Assembly! Do you understand?”
The intensity with which Val says all this makes me takes a step back on reflex. I look around to see the students all nod together, as if this is the most natural but critical information that could be given to any of them. “Okay? Why?”
“Because names can be used with certain magics as a channelling component. These are usually very bad, harmful and above all offensive magics, which you will have no defence against as it will hit you directly at the center of your being. Do you understand?”

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River Song from out of Doctor Who (Alex Kingston) reading The Ballad of Matthew Smith (about characters getting caught in an 8-bit computer game), saying 'sshhh, spoilers!'.

After the adrenaline began to die down, things grew even fuzzier. My memory of events after that were left in fragmented pieces. According to Lusana, I had suffered a nasty concussion.

Vague recollections of walking back through the tunnel were marred by conflicting memories of being carried by Char. I could recall being helped out of the truck, but never getting in. And at some point, after being laid down in a bed, I closed my eyes with a silent prayer that I would wake in the morning.

Photo, no description

Then lunch came and we ate, as usual, then prepared the dining hall for the afternoon class, as usual. Except this time, I was the student.
And now here I’m standing with Goran pulling back his arm to launch his ridiculously huge fist at me. Every time it lands it felt like getting hit by a truck, and I’m supposed to stand here and do something similar to what the students had said they saw me do with the walking suit of armour that night. I kinda remember it, but that whole thing is fuzzy now. Scales and claws they’d said. “And fangs! I remember, your mouth was full of fangs, more than any vampire! I don’t think you could close your mouth properly when you ran at the thing and shouted!” Christine had recounted, and I do remember my mouth being more crowded than usual.

Julie arrived just before nine with two cups of coffee and a tired smile. She handed one to Izzy and then stared incredulously at the handwritten directions and fuzzy map printout.
"Hey, so why don't we use my GPS? I brought it from LA"
"I've never used one before," Izzy admitted.
"It's easy," Julie said, already retrieving it from the car. "You punch in the destination, and it tells you where to go. Like magic---except bossier."
Mel Waverly - These Words Remain Unsaid, chapter 35

Marcus found his way into her hair with his hand and stroked her tenderly. Fei made a pleased humming sound without realising she was doing it, and when her ears flicked playfully from the sensation of his touch, she knew she was tickling his chin with their fuzzy tips.“So, um, Fei?” said Marcus. His voice was muffled by her ears. “What did you want to talk about?”Confused, she pulled away so she could stare up into his eyes. His breath wisped against her face. “Talk?”“You said you wanted to talk, right?” he asked. “Up on the bridge?”“Hmm?” she said with a tilt of her head. “I did?”“Yeah.”“Oh. Um, then…”There was only one thing she felt the need to tell him, so she did, setting her brow fiercely and scowling up at him.“Too many girls, Marcus. You have enough, so stop finding more girls.”He stared, his lips parted. Cute. “Okay.”

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Black and White drawing of a woman in pants and boots, with an exposed midriff and a short leather jacket. She has a gun in either hand and a determined look on her face. There are cracks all over her skin, and she has fairy-like wings.