Bill Willingham is desperately trying to get his library set up before we all descend on his new digs. I'm deep in revision mode, and Chris, Williams, and Matt are all making more pitches than Nolan Ryan right now.
Despite all of that, I get these weird bits of prose that come to me in the middle of the day:
"We got chicken!" Boles yelled over the roar of the Humvee's engine. "Half-click out, south by south east!"
Gabe whooped and popped up into the turret. Hays checked the horizon where Boles had indicated. He could see a small cloud of dust and a mass of undulating humps.
"It's honkers," he said, banging on the roof of the Hummer to get Gabe's attention. "Come on down. Nothing to shoot, here."
Gabe remained in his harness. "Come on, L.T. I'm going batshit here. Let's just cruise over and scatter 'em."
Boles had his binocs out and was checking the herd of parasolophuses out. "Where there's honkers, there's usually rippers."
Hays shook his head. "Nope. See out there? Flat and dry. Only thing out there is gonna be a Rex, and we'd know if he was within a mile of them things. They'd be running for their lives." He banged on the roof again. "We're not shooting, Gabe."
"Man," Gabe said, backing out of the turret and flopping heavily into the back seat, "I'm never gonna shoot a dinosaur."