”Some days I feel like playing it smooth and some days I feel like playing it like a waffle iron.” -Raymond Chandler
Bits of fantasy and poetry and whatnot here, comedic comics on Instagram @mostlymecomics
The grass was dead and the trees bowed under the weight of nearly ripe fruit until the leaves almost grazed the ground and even little Molly could pick pears and apples without needing to be picked up. Late August was heavy on the world. The whole yard between the fences and the neighbor yards beyond it lay languidly in death and new life as hazy heat settled over everything. The dirty plastic swing rocked itself and its frayed rubber covered chains in the gentle breeze. The day was bright, but you could only find the sun if you were looking for it. A gray-white veil cloaked the sky, and even the intense rays of the sun could only pierce it enough to make a small discolored speck in the army of clouds—almost as if the sky had something bright stuck in its teeth. It should have been windy. The air seemed to be considering it, in an uncommitted sort of way. And perhaps afterwards there would be rain. And maybe water could wash away the beautiful monotony of dust and gray.
A Witch and a Jar
“Only one in one hundred magical persons are actually born with an innate gift for magic. Perhaps there are more people on the globe who possess this power naturally, but aside from this one in one hundred, they apparently have the good sense to choose an alternate career to witchery. Concerning the other ’99,’ they all ‘borrow’ their skills. Chapters 3-5 provide specific details on this process and chapters 6-10 address the inevitable debts. It is in every witch’s interest to make sure these debts are paid by someone else.” -Supernatural Debt and Debtors by Dr. Brynne
When she opened her eyes, she was already walking. Walking one unsteady step at a time along the narrow white road in the moonlight. The path was barely three mans’ lengths across and dropped immediately to a steep cliff on both sides. Far below, identical plains, stained purple by the night ran into the horizon. Ahead, the path continued, until it disappeared into the mountains. But she wasn’t going to the mountains. She was just going forwards.
My eyes stared listlessly up at the blurry glow that I knew was the moon. I can’t spell moon. I can spell cat and dog but not moon. But I don’t suppose you have to be able to spell when you’re dead, and I don’t think I can last much longer. The water caressed my skin, nipping playfully with its cold teeth, pulling me down to stay with it forever. Encased in the clinging walls of the cove, I watched the bubbles escape my lips and swiftly dance around each other, returning to the air far above. I hardly noticed that they held my last breath.