Feb. 16th, 2017

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[personal profile] froodle
The fork, silver-chased and engraved with the religious iconography of a cult that had disbanded after a successful summoning resulted in much of the upper echelons being killed or driven insane, hit the chipped k-mart plate with a resounding clang. Metal chair legs screeched against the scuffed linoleum floor as Marshall pushed away from the table.

“I can’t do this,” he said. In front of him, a thick slice of homemade lasagne sat, fragrant and steaming amidst piles of green beans and carrots.

Simon and Dash looked up from their own food. Simon looked worried. Dash looked annoyed. Marshall pointed in the direction of the blanket-lined shipping pallet that served as a make-shift dog bed.

Sparky’s twelve red eyes were fixed on Marshall’s plate. All three of his tongues, two grey-green and covered in barbs, one pink and healthy, lolled hungrily from between yellow teeth. His tail was down, his ears were back, and his faces wore identical expressions of deep, crushing sorrow. His gaze was alight with what were either the eternally-burning fires of hell, or the glossy sheen of unshed tears.

“Every meal,” said Marshall. “One of you needs to switch places with me.”

Simon sighed, and stood.

Read the rest of the Microwave verse here )


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Eerie Indiana

September 2017

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