Who says the world isn't flat?

It was hot in the attic room. The air was still yet a few motes of dust travelled through sunbeams doing little dances as they made their descent into forever.The alarm clock had been set for six and the small brass bells began to ring incessantly, but the hammer was stifled because the clock body itself was melting,the plastic dripping onto the pressboard counter as the spring wound down with an off kilter clunk-a-thunk.

Outside the window a whippoorwill sounded.
I don't exactly recall what a whippoorwill sounds like,but I like the word and so here it is in the story, twice even.
Steveman was in a corner humming as he maneuvered a homemade tattoo rig across his forearm tracing an arrowhead into his wrinkled and sun parched skin,his blood dripping slowly down onto an old terrain map.
Wincing as he concentrated on the bold blue-black line,I took care not to interrupt as I set a frozen water bottle on the paint spattered wooden stool beside him. Tonight me move on it and we'd better take vitamins because this is going to require focus.