He called upon his inventor's creativity to find a solution to the dust that aggravated his asthma as he swept up at night.

She dreaded the thought of them walking in and catching her banging her cymbals in the shrine.

But he just knew the Dinobots would get free and ruin everything.

She drank all of the water and the larvae.

He sniffed the basement air like he always did.

She did not like women, which would have been easier to deal with had she not been one of them.

He winced at the prostrate corpse.

And down she shrank so small.

He strode like a colossus.

There was no denying her authoritative tone.

He returned the next Sunday with $2.50 in hand and persuaded the pilot to take him aloft.

Like the trees that filtered the polluted air, she filtered the blackness of their woes so that light could exist.

He wished that he had his real gun, which was stashed in some bushes not too far away.

She pushed the boat away from the dock, grabbed the cord on the motor and pulled hard.

And when he finished the last stroke, the ocean rolled off the paper.

She experienced transient feelings of unreality and depersonalization, with a sense of disorientation in space.

An expensive suit hung uneasily on his frame, as if reluctant to get too close; his shirt was a disturbing mauve.

She noted the cost of chocolate syrup and white chocolate syrup at $54.00/gallon and $58.00/gallon.

He fell through the unguarded opening, striking a three-inch angle iron scaffold support and falling to his death in the Gulf of Mexico.

And her hands were restored to her, goodlier than before.