Excerpt: Truth Be Told

Chapter 
William Howard Maine’s last thought was that the lights were beautiful, like fireflies, close enough to reach out and touch, to feel the flutter of glowing wings against his cheek. Floating bright, darting before his eyes, gathering in larger cubes and squares, bright colors, all moving so very fast. I know it was his last thought, because, like his headware, his plane didn’t stop transmitting until it hit the upper third of the Empire State Building, and after that he was in no condition to think anything else. Old saying. What did was the last thing to go through the bug on your windshield’s mind? His ass.