1. One Wallaby

Glass rained in like diamonds, and pristine cobalt paneling crunched against the wildwood abruptly lining the unpopulated mountain highway. Sara felt like a ragdoll behind the wheel, mercilessly flung to and fro, bound by the tightened seatbelt. 

Dusty rays of light shimmered through the silhouetted treetops, and Sara spat a curse. She had been trying to catch the sunrise from the hilltop, hoping to quench the rage burning through her mind, and the handprint burning her left cheek. A morning mosquito landed on the smarting flesh, reminding Sara of what awaited when she returned. 

Damn, His Majesty's gonna be pissed.

Remembering a technique her father showed her during her formative driving years, Sara reached into her purse for a blue sharpie to spruce up the scratched paint.  

"Well, it doesn't look so offensive now." Sara's father jested his then-teenaged daughter, over the unmistakably dented van. Sara hoped her father's old, dry, and subtly optimistic bluff would soften the blow when His Majesty laid his gin-red eyes on the abused vehicle. 

Grime floating at the bottom of the empty bag scraped Sara's fingernails away from the skin, leaving solid black lines beneath the nail tips. Panic clenched her lungs as she clawed at the feckless sack, and nearly turned back to the wreck to search for her essentials when a silver sedan rounded the unkempt cliffside. Sara jumped back to give the driver ample clearance as the smoking brakes squealed to a stop, paying little mind to the painted lines.