January 17, 2017, 12:45:52 AM

Author Topic: [Jan 2017] - Urban Fantasy - Submission Thread  (Read 299 times)

Offline xiagan

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[Jan 2017] - Urban Fantasy - Submission Thread
« on: December 31, 2016, 11:31:58 AM »
Urban Fantasy

Harry Dresden by The Gryph

We didn't have a genre as our monthly theme for quite a while, so this time we want you to write us a nice, little Urban Fantasy story.
This means that your story should take mainly place in a city. Any city, any time? No. To make it a bit more specific, we'd like you to stay on our world (with added supernatural elements of course) and in contemporary times (+/- 50 years). Having an Urban Fantasy story take place in ancient Rome or in Minas Tirith has its own appeal but would be a totally different theme in our opinion.

Voluntary restriction and/or inspirational spark: Since it's January and the new year has just begun, the story should be about changes, the MC restarting or changing their lives.


1. This must be prose or poetry.
2. The genre must be Contemporary Urban Fantasy.
3. Prose must be 500-1500 words long.
4. Poetry must be 100-750 words long.
5. One story per person or writing team (not per account).
6. You will be disqualified if you exceed the limits, full stop. That's why they're called limits.
7. Your entry can't be published somewhere else before.
8. This is a writing contest, not a "I have written something like this ten years ago" contest. So if you happen to have a story that fits one of the themes, I'd like it to have a mayor overhaul/edit. Work for it. ;)
9. Please add your story's word count and, if you have, your twitter handle.
10. Please put your story in [ spoiler ] tags to make the thread easier to handle. :) You can find them above the smileys next to the 'youtube' symbol.

If you want so submit your story anonymous you can do so by sending it in a personal message to @xiagan.

Entry will close Jan 31th/Feb 1st, 2017 and voting will begin somewhere around the same time too.

All members are eligible to join. If you are not a member you can join here. Sign up is free and all are welcome! :)

The winner will have their piece displayed on the main Fantasy Faction website sometime in the next months.
Submitting a story counts as published. The author retains all rights to their work.

Remember that this thread is only for entries. Discussion or questions can be posted here.

"Sire, I had no need of that hypothesis." (Laplace)

Offline m3mnoch

Re: [Jan 2017] - Urban Fantasy - Submission Thread
« Reply #1 on: January 11, 2017, 09:02:44 PM »

1499 words without the title.

twitter: m3mnoch

Spoiler for Hiden:


Hi there.  My name’s Xerxes and I’m a demon.

Well, only half-demon, as the rest of my Hell-denziens keep reminding me.

You’ve probably never heard of me. I didn’t even get a footnote mention alongside the seventy-two in the Ars Goetia.

The lack of respect means I never get the good jobs.  The interesting ones.  Do I get to string the priest upside down above his alter?  No.  I’m the one, left behind, holding open the sanctuary portal, ensuring everyone returns to Hell in a timely fashion.

But not today.  They’d finally let me come along, deeper into the city, beyond just the portal room.  Why?  They needed someone to hold a stupid door.

My existence, folks.

The sound of screeching tires, and a white ’73 convertible Ford Mustang peeled around the corner.  Its wheels bumped up over the sidewalk, headlights sprawling across the alley walls, and blasted a pile of trash into the air as it slid to a stop.

I flinched, covering my eyes from the glare and scattering debris.

Furcas popped up out of the driver’s seat, sitting on the headrest, arms in the air, “Let’s go, Pink!  I don’t want to sit in Purgs for seven years and seven days because you two are slow-mo.”

Like most demons, Furcas wore dark sunglasses, even in this early morning darkness.  The extra tint did nothing to obscure a demon’s night vision, but they effectively hid our orange pupils from the world of man.  If anything made Furcas stand out, it was his long, gray beard and black leather vest.  He looked like one of those old rock stars from the ‘80s.  But ten thousand years older.

“Don’t just stand there staring, Pinkie.  Where’s Croke?  Sun’s coming up in an hour, and we gotta blaze.”

I hated the nicknames.  Pink.  Pinker.  Pinkleton.  Hated my half-breed heritage.  Hated the thought of an eternal life cursed by it.

“He’s coming,” I replied.  “He’s finishing up his thing with that singer.”

Crokel really enjoyed torturing humans.  He always took the form of an angel, glowing and glorious, so when he started carving, strewing organs all over the room, people tended to freak out.  Which, of course, was his favorite part.  That’s usually when he’d start in with the booming voice, all talking in twisty riddles.  Bringing to bear the gravitas to make your mortal Shakespeare seem a chipmunk.

“Mighty Baal.  Seriously?”  Furcas slid back into the seat, leaned his head back, and revved the engine.  “It’s amazing that Red don’t spend more time cooling his heels than he does.”

The downside of Crokel’s bloody pursuits?  All his pompous dedication to his craft usually meant Crokel was the last one out the door.  Which was why he wanted me along.  Making wards against hunters following us.

I had drawn runes over the back exit from the club so that no human could cross it.  Well, technically they could, it would just set them on fire.  Instantly.  From the inside, out.

We were just waiting on Crokel to finish with his little indulgence and then we’d be off to our sunrise safehouse.  In the meantime, I stood there.  Like usual.  Still waiting, just holding a different door.

Minutes ticked by.

I verged on re-entering the club to see if something went wrong.  Maybe Hunters had appeared.  Maybe the bartender had found a shotgun filled with rock salt and exorcised him.

Crokel finally strode across my glyphs and paused to strike his favorite pose on the sidewalk, fists on hips, face leering skyward.

I sighed.

“Ah, Xerxes, the heavens weep at my artistry, their jealously ringing like the bells of St. Mary’s.”  His wings unfurled, feathers glittering in the harsh streetlamp spotlight.

“Did you leave him on the bar?”  I longed to help.

“Can we talk about it on the way?”  Furcas revved the engine again.  “I’d like to be back tomorrow night.  I’ve got a date with a stripper over on Westlake.”

Motorcycles thundered up the alley.  A gang of Demon Hunters burst from the same direction Furcas had just come.  They must have tracked him.

A shotgun blast split the air and rock salt shattered the Mustang’s tail light.

“Get in!  Let’s go!”

Crokel dove into the passenger seat and, without waiting for me, Furcas stomped the gas.  I sprinted ten strides and leapt, landing on the trunk, and clung to the retracted ragtop.  We spun off, shredding around corners, and flying through the city streets.

Night streamed by, but Furcas couldn’t lose the Hunters.  While his skill behind the wheel was supernatural, the bikers were good.  And, they knew the turf.

Along a straightaway, a motorcycle roared up next to them, and the driver aimed his shotgun at our rear tire.


Shredded bits of rubber sprayed through the air.  We lost traction and gouged the trolley tracks.  The Mustang spun, caught an edge, and flipped sideways.

The car rolled, side-over-side, hurtling, and flung the three of them free.  In the air, to the pavement, crashing into a store display.  The Mustang rocked to a stop, perched on its side.

I sat up from where I’d bounced against the outer wall of Macy’s.  A bit groggy, but otherwise fine.  Being a Half-Demon had its privileges.  While I didn’t heal as quickly as the full-breeds, I could still jump from the top of the Sears Tower and walk to dinner without being late.  But, man, that would hurt.

I scanned to find the others.  Crokel had destroyed a display of maternity dresses when he’d flown through its window.  He tottered to his feet, and shook off the tinkling shards.  Furcas lay a dozen feet from the car.  He sat up and frowned at the wreckage.  His beautiful car sat behind him, an ugly wall made from broken axels and a mangled transmission.

Four bikes, engines roaring, hurtled toward us.  The Hunters.

Rather than stop, the lead biker dropped his ride on its side, throwing a shower of sparks behind him, and slid straight at Furcas.

The Demon growled.  He lifted his arms and flames poured out of his hands, streaming at the oncoming motorcycle.

The hunter, mostly protected from the hellfire behind his sliding bike, didn’t flinch as he swung around a long-barreled, fat caliber handgun.

A sharp crack, the blue steel pistol jumped, and Furcas’s brains painted the oil pan.  The rest of Furcas’ corpse wavered, then exploded into a million motes.

Silver bullets.  Shit.

I glanced over at Crokel.  He was trapped in the display, flinging shards of Demonbone at two of the bikers.  They crouched behind their motorcycles, firing blind over the seats.  Crokel had killed one already.  His body lay on the sidewalk, pooling blood.

A hunter clipped the demon with a blast of rock salt, paralyzing Crokel a moment.  The other human rolled to the side and leveled his cold iron crossbow at Crokel.

Twang.  Thunk.  Demon dust.

I blinked.  It was only me now.  I went to stand, but Mr. Silver Bullets strode up to me, fearless in his black leathers.  His monster pistol held easy at his side.

Baal forgive my incompetence.  My first mortal world mission and I was already on my way to purgatory for seven years and seven days.  I closed my eyes and cringed.


Ow.  That hurt.  Right in the heart.  But it was strange.  Turning to dust didn’t really feel any different than getting shot with lead bullets.  In fact, I felt my form healing.  Had he run out of silver?

I cracked an eye and peeked at the hunter.  He was inching backwards, staring at his weapon.  He leveled it again.

Boom, boom, boom.

“Ow, damn you,” I shouted at him.  “Knock it off.”  The holes closed, and one of the bullets pushed its way out of my chest.  I caught it.


Silver hadn’t destroyed my mortal body?  What in the nine hells?

And then, I had it.  My human half.

Humans weren’t allergic to silver or salt.  Demons couldn’t be killed by standard means.  Turned out, I had taken the best from each breed.  I never knew.  Was never tested.  Everyone simply assumed weakness because of my human half.

I grinned.  Wide and demonic.

Then, I casually tore that hunter in half.

The little motel room was cramped and dark, lit by the only working lamp.

Charlie, laying on the bed, sharpened his cold iron machete and watched the 11 o’clock news.  Frank sat at the tiny desk and loaded salt rock into shotgun shells.  That left Father William perched over the nightstand, chanting under his breath, blessing canteens of water.

The room’s door exploded.  Literally exploded.  And a dark figure loomed in the hole.

“Hi there.”  The voice was almost jovial.  “My name’s Xerxes, but these days, most Hunters call me Demon-X.  You may have heard of me.”

The demon stepped across the salt barrier and into the room.

“I’m kinda famous.”

pssst, @tebakutis . . . READY!!
« Last Edit: January 11, 2017, 09:09:50 PM by m3mnoch »

Offline Nora

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Re: [Jan 2017] - Urban Fantasy - Submission Thread
« Reply #2 on: January 14, 2017, 02:15:07 PM »
I offer you The Artist at 1,500 words.

Spoiler for Hiden:

The Artist

Iain Hund, former supernatural homicide detective, now mere magical vandalism inspector, feels the staleness of his car's air like a strangling hand upon his thoughts.
He sends a last baleful glare at the wall he has pointlessly stalked for the past eight hours and starts his car to drive back to the station.
Stuffiness is a feature of long stake-outs, he's used to it. But somehow knowing you're sacrificing so many hours of your ever-shortening-life not to catch a murderer but a vandal whose only offence is to paint fine magical art on the city walls has a way of speeding the apparition of glumness.

Iain can't help but wonder how many murderers walked free while he stared at the Artist's work.

The question is a new torment for Iain, who's always stoutly believed that his career was a fair price to pay to put Jack Harris off the streets.
When he shared confidential case information with someone who had no clearance for supernatural cases (indeed, a woman in the judicial system who was not even aware of the supernatural community's existence), when he faced demotion for it, when he put down his things on his new cramped desk at magical vandalism; even after a year chasing Blues dealers, petty curse carvers, and weres doing their claws on public property, Iain Hund remained serene.
It was worth it. Against any doubt, he needed only to close his eyes, and stand in the blood soaked memory of the Harris case.

Regret burgeoned when the Artist's case was made his top priority.

Tom Dubois, whom he shares his desk with, is a cold shoulder to cry on.

"No chance with this new stake-out then?" Met only by moody silence, Tom pushes a box of donut across the desk. "They're from the Donut Plant. You look like you need some."

"You eat donuts like a normal's road cop."

"Well, those guys know what's up. Didn't you work with them, back in the day?"

"Yes," Iain sighs, dunking his hand in the proffered box, "and this case is the most pointless and disheartening task I've been given in my career, which includes these old patrols with the normal's police, writing tickets and shit."

"Come on, the Artist has been taunting us for years, but she can't be flawless. Guy with an ability like yours-what's that, magic and colour synaesthesia?-why go for old stake-outs and CCTV footage? Why not make some traps? You've got more magical ability than this whole floor put together!"

"Tom, I'd need so many warrants for one trap, it's not ever happening. I think I got given this task as extra punishment. Something to run after until I retire."

"What if they really think you can catch the vandal who's never been caught?"

"Why would they want that this bad anyway? Because some loony normal might scrap some paint off a wall and somehow figure out there's something off with it? What am I to say to her if I catch her? 'You're under arrest for artistry. Your fingers will be broken... No, sorry, I mean, I need your address so we can send you fines!' Don't you think we'd all be better off with more art like hers in NY, and less wendigos or murderous weres I could put behind bars?"

"Ever wonder how the world's gonna get along after you're gone Hund? Like, dead gone? Just fine, that's the answer. Moaning to me isn't getting you back into homicide, you know it. Artist is no murderer, maybe you've got to change your tactic, get original."

Iain, knowing good advice when it falls in his ear, thinks about the changes he can make. The police, sup or normal's, has no name, face or address to put on the Artist. Even her gender is as good as the street word, rumours from the guy who knows a guy who's seen her.

Dusting donut crumbs from his notebooks, Iain peruses through weeks of drawings. When seen by normals, or photographed, the Artist's work is static, graffiti art.
The drawings were to capture the details of what sups-anyone with a shred of magical ability-sees instead: myriads of images, sometimes a whole scene, with characters turning to the watcher, mouth opening in mute calls, sometimes the paint exploding out of the walls, pulling you in its own universe of coruscant particles.
In his book Iain has little boats on the calm waters of a lake, the face of a submerged god half hidden under lotuses, a pale man weeping liquid gold, a woman playing a sitar, each sound coming alive in the shape of a fantastical animal, the dramas of a dozen, exotically dressed men bartering in dunes of sand you could almost feel blowing into your eyes, a highway bridge pillar turned into an aquarium in which twirled a bigger-then-life mermaid.
His book is far thicker than the case file ever was.
In the last pages he finds the sketches made of a long mural of dancers. Their appearance changed depending on the angle you looked at it, a masquerade of shapeshifters. It is a message for the man the Artist knows is on her trail, for hidden behind the legs of a dancer stands a black wolfdog–for Hund–and though it has no collar, a golden tag gleams beneath its jaws, etched in the faintest strokes with the name Iain.

That's how she must see me: the law's dog on his invisible leash.

"Okay then, let's get original."

"Mmh? Where are you going?"

"Hudson Heights. I'm gonna get friendlier with our local alchemists."

He leaves Tom to choke on his donut.

Alchemists have no claws or tooth to rend through you, but they don't need them. The power they wield, and their tendency for single minded obsession, make them a prickly bunch, and the Sup-PD has a special unit for policing them.
Iain's badge feels like a flimsy shield in his hand as he steps down from the sunny, all-American street and into the subterranean entrance to the alchemy quarters.
The skills of the Artist and the finesse of her alchemical paints has already sent Iain deep inside those hidden galleries of shops and studios, where his questions revealed envy, admiration, and wholesalers of raw materials who do most business online and all proudly claim her as one of their customers, whilst unable to prove anything.

The man at the entrance door is sipping on a Starbucks coffee.

"You again, cop?"

"Well, today I am coming as a customer, though the purchase is work-related."

The doorman grins, his voluptuous black lips twisting from ear to ear in glee.

"A master getting cop dollars? Now that's precious! Which master will it be?"

"Toby Smith please."

The man, still smiling, reaches for the door's handle, flips its dials with dexterity, and opens it wide for Iain to pass. Iain nods his thanks and scuttles past, through the door and the chill of its magic, right into the organised chaos of Toby Smith's shop.

"What do you want now?" a disembodied voice asks from all corners.

Smith does business like this, never bothering to be present in the same room as his customers, his store guarded by an arsenal of curses carved in the ceiling, the likes of which would make a hardened criminal as docile as a puppy.


"You're still after the Artist?"

"Ah, yes sir."

"You planning on defacing her work?"

"No sir. I like her work a lot. However, she caters to her fans, and I thought, maybe, I can get to discuss with her somehow?"

Drawers open at invisible hands, glass jars and packets start drifting towards Iain.

"You're planning some sort of lethal courtship via painting? You're a real dog, Hund! I like it. Leave two hundred behind, follow the instructions on the packs, and work on your spells beforehand, unless you want to blow your moronic face off."

"Thanks sir."

"Looking forward to see your work Hund."

Iain follows the instructions by the letter, spends several days practising, and more building the final spell-works and paints before going out. He's mapped the Artist's work through Manhattan, found places she was likely to walk by.
When he is ready, when he pulls a dark hoody above his black curls, and sits behind the wheel of his own car, about to go into the night to do what he's paid to stop, Iain feels shivers of anticipation and dread, a kinship to his prey, and a respect stronger than ever for the woman who inconspicuously prowls the nights.

He does her portrait, suggested, unfinished, broad strokes of paint revealing how little he knows of her. Sitting beside her stands a black hound with a golden tag, his muzzle resting in her lap, starring into her unpainted eyes, waiting to be filled.

Two days later, Iain finds that the mouth of the Artist has been repainted in a slight smile.
« Last Edit: January 15, 2017, 07:33:43 PM by Nora »
"She will need coffee soon, or molecular degeneration will set in. Her French phrasing will take over even more strongly, and soon she will dissolve into a puddle of alienation and Kierkegaardian despair."  ~ Jmack

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Offline gennerik

The Chase
« Reply #3 on: January 16, 2017, 10:24:07 PM »
I hope everyone enjoys reading The Chase, by Brian Decker.  It clocks in at an enjoyable 1449 words.

Spoiler for Hiden:
   Detective “Tiny” Kekoa pulled into the small driveway and put his Jeep in neutral.  He let the engine idle a minute before turning the key, his grandfather’s voice in his head.  Don’t ever leave your girl running hot.  You treat her right, she’ll be with you ‘til you die.  A small smile split the man’s lips.  His grandfather would always give a conspiratorial wink when he’d say this, and it wasn’t until years later that Tiny had realized his grandfather was speaking about more than cars.

   As Tiny’s solid bulk stepped down from the vehicle, another officer exited the small house and walked towards him.  “What do we have, sergeant?”

   Sergeant Sekioka replied, “Lone male, older ‘n sin, sir.  Don’t see how he’s our man, but if he is, he ain’t going nowhere.”

   Tiny raised his eyebrow, knowing he couldn’t have been wrong, but suddenly second-guessing himself.  “The man’s a magician when it comes to theft.  Don’t care what he looks like, I know this is him.”

   Sekioka shrugged.  “You’re in charge, sir.  Anyway, don’t think he’s gonna be a problem too much longer.  He’s coughing up blood, and there’s already a fair amount on the sheets.  Ambulance has been called, but it’s rush hour.  Waikiki traffic’s a bitch.”

   Tiny grunted as he moved towards the house.  As soon as he entered, he was met by another officer, Keniki Leinani, who stopped him with a small hand.  She looked at him, shaking her head as she spoke, “He said he’d confess, but only to you, and only alone.”  She paused, reading his face and knowing his answer, “I don’t like it, but I know you don’t care.  He’s in the bedroom, that way.”   She made a small gesture towards the back of the house.

   He smiled a controlled smile, then walked past her.  As he moved back towards the bedroom, he saw a number of unique items he recognized—from pictures only, before they had been stolen.  Other than the priceless artifacts, he could have been inside any of the small, indigenous homes that remained scattered throughout Waikiki.  The homes, the people, remained, ignoring the growing Haole hellhole that had grown around them.

   Tiny entered the bedroom, noted the two officers that were there watching the bedridden man.  He nodded his head—Take off—and a moment later he was alone with the man.  “Aloha Joe… it seems the chase is at its end.”

   The man raised his head—bald and covered in age spots—to look at Tiny.  “Ah, Detective Kekoa—“  A coughing fit wracked Aloha Joe’s body; blood and phlegm sprayed out over the once-white sheets.  A second wave of coughs hit before the man could get it under control enough to continue, “The Warrior has come, ready to end our game.”

   The doubts that had shadowed this moment in Tiny’s head disappeared as soon as the man opened his mouth to speak.  After more than eleven years of chasing Aloha Joe, he had his man.  “All games gotta end, Joe.”  He moved towards a chair—the only other furnishing in the room aside from the bed—and sat down, savoring the moment.  “Bein’ honest, it took a lot longer than I was expecting.  You led me all over the island—a merry little chase.”

   Joe’s chuckle quickly turned into another fit of coughing.  ”It’s probably not even worth arresting me.  I’m doing quite well at dying right here.”  Joe’s head sank back into the pillow with a sigh.  “I don’t suppose you’ve got a cigarette on you?”

   “Sorry, no.  Never picked up the habit.”  Tiny shifted in the chair, keeping alert just in case Joe tried one final trick.  He still couldn’t believe how rough the man looked.  He was expecting a much younger man, though truth be told, the man was thin as a stick, which gave each of his features a hollow, aged look.  There comes an assumed familiarity when you’ve chased someone as long as he had, even though he had never met Aloha Joe.  Finally being confronted with Joe in person—it was kind of a let down.

   “Damn shame, there.  Though I guess they will kill you.”  Joe inhaled a slow breath before he continued, the occasional cough punctuating his speech, “I guess we should get down to business, then.  I understand my rights, don’t waste what time I’ve got left reading me those.  My name is—“

   “Sorry, Joe, gotta do this by the book, just in case you ain’t as bad off as you seem.”  Tiny removed his notepad as he read the man his rights, watching Joe the entire time.  The man barely stirred except to acknowledge he understood.  Tiny half-expected Joe to button up, but that didn’t happen.  As Tiny clicked his pen, Joe began.

   “My name is Joe Embritch, also known as Aloha Joe.  I was stationed at Pearl Harbor before the war, aboard the mighty ship USS Arizona.  I was one of the few survivors of the initial attack on Pearl.  That moment caused me to reevaluate my priorities.  After I got out, I stayed on-island, deciding to live my life how I wanted.  With that in mind, I turned to a life of crime.”  A series of coughs interrupted him, more blood sprayed from his mouth.

   “Joe,” Tiny began after Joe had stopped coughing, “It’s a nice story an’ all, but you ain’t got the time to tell it all to me.”

   “Ah, Warrior, this moment has been eleven years in the making.  Do you really expect either one of us to not savor it?”

   Tiny caught some hint of something in the statement, but couldn’t pin it down.  Agitated, he gruffly replied, “I’ll savor it after you’re done—dead or in prison, either way works for me.”

   “So be it.  Then let’s begin in earnest.”  Joe raised his head, smiling at Tiny.  “I think you’re in for a surprise or two.”


   By the time Tiny exited the bedroom, he could hear thunderous booms in the distance.  He walked outside into darkness occasionally lit by a series of firework.  Friday evenings.  Tiny shook his head, silently cursing the tourists that had turned his little island into a show for their enjoyment.  He walked past Keniki without saying a word, intent on getting to his Jeep.

   Her following shout caused him to turn around, “That’s it?  You’re just gonna walk past and not say a word?”

   “He’s gone—dead,” he clarified, forestalling the follow-on question.  “But, I’ve got all my notes from his confession, which he signed, just to add insult to injury, I’m sure.  Hope the bastard rots in Hell.”

   “Then, is tonight a celebration?” she asked.  Tiny thought there might be more than one question being asked.

   “Not tonight, but soon.  I’ve still got the paperwork to file, and I want this completely closed before I celebrate.  It’s been too long of a chase to celebrate prematurely.”  Tiny turned back to his Jeep and opened the door.  He stopped with a leg still out.  “I’ll definitely let you know when it’s time to celebrate.”


   Tiny stood outside in the dark.  The fireworks had ceased some hours earlier, and he was left alone in near-silence—only the wind, waves, and the insects could be heard.  He pulled a newly purchased pack of cigarettes from his pocket and selected one.  He pinched off the filter before he put it to his lips, dropping the filter carelessly to the ground.  With a snap of his fingers and a single word, the tip of the cigarette flared up briefly before settling into a crimson glow.  He could feel the magic pull at the body’s energy, sapping a minute amount compared to what remained.

   He took a pull, savoring the flavor of the tobacco, then exhaled smoke into the night.  The cigarette was quickly gone and also flicked off into the night, and laughter began to bubble up from Tiny’s chest.  The big man burst into a raucous laughter, enjoying the moment for the first time in months.  He continued laughing until he was interrupted by a prickling that ran over his entire body.

   Tiny rolled his shoulders and shifted his body until the prickling subsided, comfortable once again.  “That’s the problem with new bodies,” he said, to no one in particular.  “You’ve always got to break them in.  They really… itch… the soul.”

   He turned back towards his new home, looking over the well-manicured landscaping and the bright blue exterior, visible in the light of the full moon.  Tiny had done quite well for himself.  Inhaling the sea air one final time, he walked back into the house.  It was time to settle in.
Author of Lamentation's Peak
Part-time Dreamer / Full-time Speaker


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