Aviary Bowstring

Tommy wanted to write a novel, one the likes that had never been seen before. He was ambitious, electric. His knowledge of arcane and obscure technology transmogrified the letters and serifs on paper into smoky, ruinous shelters. "Ass creaming comes across this guy," he scrawled. He frowned. Erased. He licked the pencil's tip, furrowed his brow. He had to focus harder. He had visions of violence and banana pancakes dancing in his head. His apprentice leaned his head into his room, asked him if he needed anything. Tommy smiled and said no, he was all set.