I Lost It At "-clear Across The Room."

Are fedoras really that bad?

YES YES THEY ARE

fell asleep while writing and

A little Urban Fantasy

I wish I could say this was born out of a long, well thought out concept of a wizard/shaman character trying to scrape by in the big city as a detective on a supernatural investigative team whilst dealing with the myriad of fantasy creatures sticking their nose into his personal life and causing all kinds of chaos around his town. But in reality, I just wanted a chance for a guy to nail a God in the junk. So, Enjoy.

~~~~~~

The night air was heavy with the musk of summer heat. Standing across the desolate park was Mr. Simmons, or so he went by. I had been tracing his movements for some time, trying to catch him slip up. I had my suspicions after watching him stand behind little Timmy at the festival a few weeks ago. An unremarkable man, Mr. Simmons looked like any other office worker. His dull suit and unoffensive presence made him blend well into the scenery of the urban setting. A little too well.

I had managed to get him out to the meeting when I mailed him some photos I took of him at the festival. I had to shop in some special details, marking in the note that I had a special lens attached. I figured he would just get antsy and cover his tracks, but here he is. Staring at me as if to set me on fire. For all I knew, he could do it.

I guess Gods can get nervous too.

Mr. Simmons reached into his jacket. I tensed my hand around the revolver at my side. A bullet to the gut probably wouldn’t do much to an omnipotent being, but its presence allowed me the bravado I needed to stare down celestial types. He produced an envelope and held it out in front of him, quirking an expectant eyebrow.  I followed suit. Without losing my grip on the pistol, a steady hand fished a roll of film from my pocket. I also held it up for the long-distance scrutiny of my business partner.

Now this is where the dance gets tricky. We show off the goods, hand it over to a confidant and they make the trade. If either side showed sign of unfavorable response, the deal is blown and we go our separate ways, usually the head goes one way and the body goes another. Seeing as my conversation piece was powered by gunpowder and his by the visceral might of eternity, I hedged my bets on taking a dive. As such, I play by as many rules to get by as I can. Stay cool, stay professional, stay alive. Blackmailing Gods is tricky business to say the least.

I hand the cartridge to my confidant beside me, a little sprite I have lovingly deemed “Fetch”. The Fey can be chaotic at times, but with the right incentive they can be a boon for simple tasks. Such as, “give to the big scary guy and nab the goods. Then comes energy drinks.”

The diminutive fellow hefts the cartridge in his arms and sets his wings in motion. Across the park, Mr. Simmons does the same. His choice of companion is best described as a pile of compost. Various bits of plant detritus, leaves and twigs, jutting out at odd angles and mashed together with a pair of flowers at the top as a form of eyes I guess. It managed to balance the envelope on its head and shamble its way over to me.

I had been milling the thought for a while, ‘why would a land god use a blob of mulch as a companion and not some kind of cute woodland creature?’ I narrowed my eyes at the undulating creature. As it approached, I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I glanced over to Fetch, he was almost to Simmons. I decided to make a small diversion. Tilting my head back, I let out a loud sneeze. Everyone on the scene froze for a moment as I reached for a handkerchief. I wiped my nose and glanced over at Fetch, who had been looking at me over his shoulder. He whipped around, letting the canister fall from his grip. It clattered on the ground.

“Ah, come on Fetch!” I called to him, “Be professional, like we practiced.”

Yelling at my companion gave me an opening to steal a glance at the vegetative familiar. The envelope had toppled from its head when I bellowed my sneeze. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the mess snatch the envelope with a bony hand protruding from within the pile of leaves. I made a sound, something between a hiccup and a shriek. Whatever it was, it was obvious enough to alert the land god to my epiphany. Er, correction. That was no land god. I was attempting to blackmail a being of decay, of rot and death. Standing across from me wearing a rather irritated expression was a Plague God.

Remember that part about “separate ways”? Well, things were going to go very “separate” for me in short order unless quick thinking could save my bacon. When in doubt, fall back on the classics.

“AAAAAAHHHH!” I shouted and ran like a maniac. This clued Fetch in to do his most favorite trick. A mystical light-speed hokey-pokey that filled the area with enough razzle and dazzle to out glitz Vegas. The diversion must have gotten to the very angry being of unlife as I managed to make the few steps necessary to pounce on the envelope. A well placed back-hand toppled the camouflaged corpse into a rotten pile of bones. I sprang to my feet as the glitter faded from the air, the little guy can only boogie so long. I let loose a string of colorful language. Or I tried, I got to kiss the dirt before finishing “Shi-“ and had a powerful and ancient being digging its all-powerful boot into my back.

“Did you really think you could best me, Mortal?” It said with a voice like searing acid. I felt a deep chill fill my body. A cold that threatened to stop my heart before I could blink. But, it is in our most dour moments, that glory can be found and indomitable wit can be harnessed. I dug my numb hand into my pocket and work what I assumed were my fingers around my revolver.

“Did—you think, I wouldn’t…gun!” I pulled the trigger and felt a hot sting in my foot.

Some ideas are better than others. The deity howled in laughter, stepping off me and drawing a long, gnarly looking scimitar. Raising it high over his head and looming over me.

“Such are the machinations of a fool.”

I flipped to my back, “Me? A fool?” I pulled my bloody foot in front of me. “Maybe, but I ain’t the one staring down a Gate, am I?” With my one-liner properly dispatched, I gave Simmons my best crippled nut-shot.

The look of surprise on his face was priceless. Horror, disgust, rage and maybe a tinge of acceptance, though that might just be the hubris talking. The portal I had unlocked via bullet to the foot swallowed the powerful being in a wondrous display of magic and light. There were magical words floating in the air, vortex-y looking structures crafted from aether and a really sci-fi “vwoosh”-ing sound. After the fireworks display, the dust settled and the park returned to a quiet and serene place. I even had a moment to enjoy the adrenaline before the shrill sound of police sirens permeated the night. My signal to get moving.

I whistled for Fetch and I hobbled my way back to the car. My faithful driver waiting patiently, smoking a thick cigar. As I approached, he pulled the door open for me and I threw myself inside, Fetch staying close by. We pulled away from the park and disappeared into the night, literally. It’s handy to know a few gnome mechanics.

“Just as planned?” Piped up my driver, the cigar clenched between his teeth.

I winced as the adrenaline gave way to the throbbing pain aching my whole body. I managed to pretty up the expression with a rugged and manly smirk. I reached down and tugged the envelope free from the hole in my foot.

“All in a day’s work.”

He gave a sideways glance and shuddered, “You Gates are so weird.”

We continued in silence. It gave me time to wonder. A plague god had no place waltzing into the festival. How the heck did he sneak in? I looked over the envelope and resolved to bring it up with Marshal back at the office. But that could wait.

“Danny,” I said, “Take me to 42nd and Vice. I got a date with a gal.”

“Can I ride shotgun?”

I shook my head, “Got a Plague God riding shotgun right now, but if you are into that kind of thing…”

He pounded the palm of his hand on the steering wheel. “Dammit, I never get to—“ He paused and let the cigar drop from his mouth. “Plague God!?”

I snatched the cigar before it landed on the seats and popped it back into his mouth. “Never fret, my friend.” I smiled, “I got a plan.”

He took a drag on the tobacco and let out a thick sigh, “I need to find a new line of work.”

Day 5 - Husky / Enchanted

Couldn’t help but notice that some of the prompts could do with a little overlap. So to make things a little easier on myself, I fused some concepts together. Should be interesting from here on out. Wish me luck.

...

Mal Mute, a Husky Kaiju famous for his wicked fighting style, pushed the door of the locker room open and tumbled inside. He ripped off this muzzle-mask and heaved heavily. His lips trembled, fangs dripping with saliva, muscles clenched and his body quaked. He dropped to his knees and clutched his head. Fighting to get control of his heart and his breathing, he curled into a ball on the locker room floor. The collar around his neck was glowing an ominous red light, radiating heat and digging into his furred neck. He gasped for air, fighting to get under control, fighting against a darker desire.

The locker room door pushed open. A looming figure in a long, dark cloke, stepped into the locker room and presided over the scene. He looked down the bridge of his beak, the master of the Dark Arts, Psychopomp. He tapped his crooked staff on the linoleum floor. Mal Mute brought a blood-shot eye up to him and a sweeping, clawed hand lashed out at him. Psychopomp didn’t flinch as the raking claw missed his face by mere inches.

“Good to see you again, too,” The Raven Kaiju said. “And how have you been?”

Recoiling his strike, Mal Mute shrank back against a locker. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated, his color was white hot. His voice eeked out in choked whining.

“Okay,” Psychopomp said, “Let’s try this again.”

He tapped his staff on the ground again. The crystal at the top radiated a black energy that released a purple vapor. Snaking through it air, is slithered over to Mal Mute’s collar and encircled it. The blazing accessory began to cool, falling limp as if it had lost some kind of manic power it once held.

Mal Mute slumped against the lockers, dropping his head to his chest and heaving a sigh of relief.

Psychopomp stayed a relatively safe distance away, but spoke up, “Feeling better?”

The wolf Kaiju Fighter continued to focus on breathing. But managed to clear his throat to respond. “Much better. Thank you, Psy.”

At this prompt, Psychopomp set his staff aside and went to Mal Mute’s side to help him to a bench. Once seated, Psychopomp pulled out a small bone-shaped treat. 

“Here, Mal Mute” He said, “Eat this. It should help.”

Mal Mute nodded and took the treat, scarfing it down. 

“You know,” He said, licking his fingers, “When I’m out of the ring, you can just call me ‘Buster’. Mal Mute is just the ring name.”

Psychopomp sighed, “I am well aware of your name, Mal Mute, it is more a matter of keeping this relationship professional. I am, for lack of a better term, your caretaker, as of now.” He glanced at the collar around Mal Mute’s neck. “You said you had it under control.”

Buster scratched at the collar around his neck. The source of his power and the reason he was a Kaiju in the first place. “I did.” He said, his voice meek, “But then the guy got a second wind. I had to raise the stakes to take him down.”

Psychopomp shook his head, “I warned you against using that...what did you call it?”

“Malignant Assault,” Mal Mute said.

“Right, that. I warned you against using it more than once. If you tap into that power too much you will lose yourself to it. I don’t have to remind you what happened last time.” Psychopomp put a hand on Mal Mute’s shoulder. “You have to accept your limits.”

Mal Mute nodded along, as he had always done before. But when the hand touched his shoulder, he felt something inside crack a little.

“No, I refuse.” He said, his voice was dark and sinister. “I refuse to accept limits.” He lifted his head to look at Psychopomp, his eyes getting red. “I promised him. I promised I would always be the strongest. That I wouldn’t lose to anyone!”

He stood up, at his full height, he managed to tower over the raven Kaiju. Psychopomp stood, unruffled, but he had picked up his staff and the purple vapor was already swirling around the crystal.

“It was the last thing I promised him before they came for him. He was not the best guy in the world, I knew that, but he fed me and gave me a home and a name. I will never forget his kindness, even if it means tearing everything apart!” He flexed his fist and slammed it against the lockers, causing them to warp considerably. 

“And then you killed him,” Psychopomp said. His voice was flat and cold. The purple smoke lashed around his body, ready to defend.

Mal Mute grit his teeth. “Yes, yes I did! He should have listened to me! He should have gotten behind me! There was no need for him to run onto the battlefield like that. He shouldn’t have tried to…” His voice cut out. Red eyes clouded with tears and words failed.

Buster dropped his head, “He shouldn’t have tried to save me.”

The collar around his neck radiated heat, but in a dull ache. He let the pain bring his mind away from painful memories.

“I know I am cursed,” Buster said, “But what am I supposed to do?’

Psychopomp let out a relieved sigh. “Not cursed, not necessarily.”

Mal Mute looked up, “What do you mean?”

Psychopomp stepped closer, but hesitated. “Do you mind if I touch the collar?”

Mal Mute shook his head and craned his neck to expose the pendant hanging from the collar. Psychopomp grabbed it and lifted it up. On the underside, there was an inscription. Part boiler plate, part eldritch magic.

“Your entire form runs on forbidden eldritch magic, yes,” Psychopomp said, he fished a small treat-shaped charm from his robe and snapped it onto the collar beside the pendant, “But with a few alterations, it can be honed.” 

The heat of the collar died down immediately. Mal Mute’s eyes went wide. As Psychopomp stepped away, he gingerly touched his collar.

“I...I don’t feel it anymore.” He looked at the raven Kaiju, “How did you do that?”

Psychopomp grinned, “Your caretaker happens to be the greatest master of the dark arts, a little eldritch enchantment was no match for me.”

Buster rushed forward and lifted Psychopomp in a bear hug. The raven Kaiju gasped for the breath that was being crushed out of his lungs.

“Holy tennis balls, Psy! This is the best thing ever!” He put the ruffled raven back down. “I don’t know how to repay you! I got some tickets to a big party coming up. Do you want to go? We could go together? You wanna go? You wanna go? You’re such a good boy! You wanna go?”

Psychopomp straightened himself out, “For a Fighter named ‘Mute’ you really prattle on.”

“Oh, that’s just the stage handle. You know, cause, a husky is like a malamute. But I’m a heel, a bad dog, so it’s a play on words. I thought it was really clever. And I get to wear a cool mask. But it is hard to breathe sometimes. Maybe I should get a new one?”

Psychopomp raised his hand, “Alright alright, easy there, Mal Mute.” He cleared his throat, “You have been given a new chance. I wanted you to step down, but it seems you are hellbent on staying in the ring.”

Mal Mute nodded intently. 

“Then the medallion should help you remain under control. But try to keep the Melodious Assaults to a minimum.” He said, tapping his staff to summon a swirl of purple mist.

“Malignant Assaults.” Mal Mute added, helpfully.

“Whatever.” Psychopomp said. “Oh, and yes, I will join you for the party. Send me an email, would you?” 

With that, the grand master of dark magic vanished from the locker room in a swirl of mystical purple haze. Mal Mute smiled and gave a thumbs up to no one. He would later pay a hefty fine for busting the lockers.

Abled Person: Hey man, can you hold this wad of $2,000 and this one penny for me while I open my wallet?

Disabled Person: YOU COMPLETE AND UTTER FOOL!

The United States Government:

(Watch how many people don’t get this.)

The Evening PokeNews

Good Evening and Welcome to the 11 o’clock PokeNews

I’m Chet Pokenews with the PokeNews.

A recent string of poverty has been sweeping the Alola region. Trainers are be drained of all their necent funds after encountering a particular trainer currently on her Island Challenge. We talked with local residents who met with the child.

Punk Girl- “I dunno what came over me, I just saw that Lycanroc start to party and I got caught up in the atmosphere. Before I knew it I had handed over more money than I even thought I had on me at the time.”

Madam- “It was holding something shiny, like a coin, and I just thought it was so adorable that when I lost I just emptied out my purse.”

Aether Foundation Employee- “I lost my life savings, pension, and even the paycheck I was on my way to cash. That child is a menace!”

We managed to catch up with Professor Kukui, alleged relation of this Alolan newcomer, to get his comment.

Kukui- “Hey, sometimes you just get a Dizzy Punch to the Body Slam, and when you Agility, it Bug Buzz your Tackle Aerial Ace Flamethrower. Yeah, Cousin?”

Kukui’s lab assistants report that the child is currently in possession of a special Rotom Dex which can induce even great financial prosperity upon victory in pokemon battle. If you see this trainer *posts image of passport picture with vacant eyes gazing into the camera* do not make eye contact as it will ignite our ancient tradition of challenging one another to a pokemon battle no matter the circumstances. Be on your guard and stay safe.

When we return, Aether Foundation President Lusamine has an announcement on a recent project to disappear to an alternate dimension AND current Malasada trends. Stay Tuned.

concept playlists;

you’re lying on mossy forest floors, slowly transforming into a nymph, your fingers are turning into flower vines, your limbs are bleeding honey & growing thick skins of sepia bark, wings sprout in between your shoulder blades. your breath sounds like the wind. fireflies litter the air above you

you’re hold up in an abandoned church, outside there’s a raging storm & a horde of zombies roaming around, pressing up against the entrance doors. you & a small band of survivors are staying inside for the night in hopes to ride the bad weather out. you take first watch & listen to these tunes on an old ipod while everyone else tries to get some rest & the undead crawl outside, awaiting the taste of human flesh.

you’re in your boyfriend’s pickup. he’s asleep in the passenger seat, you’re driving without a destination in mind & you have the window down as you let the cool night air whip against your face in a state of pleasant delirium you’re on a rooftop somewhere, there’s 5 am air on your skin, streetlights glint like coins at the bottom of wishing wells from where you sit. you’re feeling peaceful for the first time all week

you’re lying in the middle of a crop circle forty miles from your grandma’s old house waiting for aliens to come and abduct you

it’s four pm in the afternoon and you’ve got your head in the lap of the only boy you’ve ever loved & you’re reading jane eyre & he’s sipping on tea & it’s the kind of weather where it’s just warm enough for you to pretend it’s summer & it’s drizzling & you’re listening to the rain beat softly against the windowpanes you’re curled up in bed as it pours outside, there’s a citywide blackout and the last candle you had left has finally blown out, but you feel strangely at peace within the warm, all-consuming dark

you’re making out in the bathroom of a house party with someone that makes you feel like you’ve swallowed the sun you’re standing amidst a city you burned to the ground. the apocalypse has come & gone. all that’s left is ashes & mortar & sad bones but you’re feeling empowered. a slow smile creeps up your lips as you realize how you’ve always wanted to watch the world burn you wander into wonderland and now you’re suddenly being crowned fairie queen, apparently there’s a prophecy waiting to be fulfilled  it’s mid morning but it’s dark outside from the rain. you thought the tapping on the window was from the rain but it’s actually a crow that flickers out of sight when you look directly at it you’re sipping on cherry cola by the pool on a lazy sunday & you’re feeling younger than you’ve ever been you’re summoning old ghosts in an abandoned parking lot on a smoggy thursday night

date a selkie, but don’t hide her cloak. let her go home and visit her family now and then, knowing that she’ll come back and hang her seal cloak in the closet like she always does. trust is important.

Grondel of Irvasker

I never planned on this turning into a scene. It just sort of tumbled out. So I had no way of knowing how to end it. So, forgive the meme conclusion. Enjoy?

...

The Irvasker tribe of the wintery north always held honor among warriors as guiding doctrine. Every man, woman, and child was expected to show this level of reverence and respect to strength and especially overcoming obstacles, be they from the world or within. This left Yorgen Irvasker, son of the mighty Tusk Irvasker, in a difficult position. The great beast Grondel’s head lay at his feet. The same beast that Yorgen had failed to hunt for months. Indeed, such a feat would yield, by their tribe’s most honored traditions, the seat beside the Chief. Yorgen was conflicted giving such a regal position to an outsider, especially a Bobkin. He clenched and unclenched his fist several times around the pommel of his great sword, debating if he could talk his way out of lopping the sly grin off the Bobkin’s face. The Chief cleared his throat again, motioning to Yorgen.

“Ah yes,” Yorgen said, knocked from his internal monologues of bloodshed, “You have done well, Bobkin.”

“The name’th Withper.” The Bobkin named Whisper said with a painfully comical lisp. He leaned his small frame against the beast’s head, his elbow digging into its ear. “And I think, you got more to thay than that.”

Yorgen stifled a grumble with a cough, “Yes of course. As the customs and traditions of our tribe dictate, you are to receive a title and position worthy of your deed.”

Whisper gave a revoltingly self-satisfying smile and patted the head, “Tho, what will thith get me?”

The Chief stood from his throne of furs, leather and bone and made a wide gesture that made his mammoth-skin cape flutter around him. “For your deeds you shall become a Yar-Vasker.” 

Whisper looked from the Chief to Yorgen. Yorgen sighed and wiped a hand over his face and down his beard, “He means you will become like a brother to the Chief.” 

The minute warrior cheered, “About time you meatheads recognized my might.”

The Chief smiled. Yorgen grumbled, but then noticed a shifting of movement on the beast’s head. Not a sign of life, more like a sudden change in color before quickly shifting back. 

“But before that,” Yorgen said, approaching the head, “We shall make ceremony of this great and impressive victory!” He raised his mighty great sword into the air. The masses cheered at the glinting steel of his blade. “Oh Whisper, the great hunter, the honor shall be yours.” He extended his arm, offering the huge weapon to the small Bobkin.

“Exthcuthe me?” Whisper said, head tilting to the side.

“Drive the blade into the beast’s head, such is the ceremony before honoring you as Yar-Vasker.” Yorgen said with an ice-cold smile. 

Whisper looked at the greatsword, the handle of which was larger than his forearm. “I don’t think--”

“Oh but great hunter Whisper,” Yorgen said, his voice booming, “After defeating this beast, surely this small task is nothing for you.”

“Yes,” The Chief said, his smile was warm and brotherly, “Show us the might that slew the powerful beast.”

Cheers lifted from the crowd, followed by chanting for their new hero. Yorgen beamed, eyes wide and full of malice, down at the small Bobkin. The handle of the weapon aimed at his head like the bolt of a crossbow.

“Uh,” He looked between the weapon and the beast’s head. “Ith thith really nethethary?”

“Oh?” Yorgen said, a brow arching with the hope of mimicking the expression of one who is surprised. “Could it be you do not have the strength?”

Whisper sneered and matched glares with Yorgen, “Well, it was quite a mighty battle,” He let his grin show more of his sharp teeth, “Not that you would really know.”

The chanting of the crowd masked their interaction, but enough people noticed the change in Yorgen, from his usual calm and dominant presence, to the tense presence of a coiled predator. A second chant was called out, probably by one of the younger fools in attendance, that called for more bloodshed.

Whisper and Yorgen held each other at a glare until the burly, bearded man broke first. He turned to the Chief.

“My Chief. The battle with Grondel has left our savior weary indeed and unable to initiate the ceremony.” Yorgen said, his face wearing a worried look that ill matched the giddy sound in his voice.

Whisper let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

“So instead” Yorgen continued, “Mightn’t I do the honors?” He turned and lifted the blade over his head, eyes locked on the head of the beast.

“STOP!” Whisper said, his lisp vanishing. 

Yorgen brought the blade down. 

The head bounced out of the way and tumbled behind Whisper.

“Are you crazy?” The head burbled before twitching and shifting into a different creature. A mix between a shaggy dog and a dragon. The Farceling tried to hunker its large body behind the small Bobkin. 

The crowd went wild, confusion, anger and a couple of people laughing nervously.

“I knew it!” Yorgen cried, “Naught but lies and trickery!” Yorgen strode over to them, blade held tight in his fist. “You dare--”

“Now,” Whisper held up his hands, “Let’s be reasonable about this.” 

“We need to escape,” the Farceling muttered from behind his friend.

“What do you think I am trying to do, Hush?” Whisper said in a panicked voice.

“No, not from him,” Hush said.

Yorgen loomed over them. “I have had enough of you both.” He was shouting over the cacophony of the crowd. “You shall be put to death for your deceit.”

“Silence!” The Chief cried, raising his hands.

A rather tiny Pixum poked its head out of Whisper’s pocket for a second, “Did they figure me out too?” Whisper quickly pushed Silence back into his pocket.

The din of noise in the hall fell away. 

“Where are the guardsmen?” The Chief said, scanning the crowd. Five hands went up.

“Here, Chief!”

Yorgen’s eyes went wide, “Then who is standing guard?”

The five men looked at one another.

“You said you were going to stay behind.”

“I told Bristle to stand watch for me.”

“Then why is HE here?”

“But Grondel is dead, so why would I need to stand guard?”

The crowd turned their eyes on the cowering Farceling. A hush fell over the room. 

Then a quaking wail, the sound of souls being shred and the dead writhing in their graves, came thundering through the hall. Followed soon was the sound of barricades splintering under the force of powerful, unstoppable limbs. 

The Chief went pale, “Grondel.”

Yorgen furrowed his brow, “It's here.”

“Oh shit,” Whisper whispered

Roll initiative…

Writing without a story

I’ve got a couple of asks in my inbox about my prompt fills on here as well as how long I spend on them exactly. So here’s a bit of my process!

1) Find a prompt you like.

There are a lot of great prompt blogs out there! @writing-prompt-s, @gingerly-writing, @witterprompts, @yetmoreprompts and @corvidprompts are some of my favorites to go for inspiration.

For this post, I’ll be using this one (X) from writing-prompt-s! Don’t think too hard about it–that’ll just keep you from writing! Pick one you’d be interested in learning more about and open up a new document!

Prompt:  You are a lonely young child. Your parents are always working and you don’t have any friends. To cope, you decide to start talking to your stuffed animal. After you ask it a question one day, it responds

2) Choose your genre.

I tend to stick to urban fantasy or high fantasy, but maybe that’s not what you’re interested in writing! If you like writing out suspense, maybe thriller is more your speed or mystery! The world is your oyster.

3) Write the first line.

I favor my 10th grade english teacher’s advice here and try to write “one true sentence!” Technically it’s Hemingway’s advice, but he can go ahead and stay the frick out of this post!

Here’s my thought process: Young children need physical/verbal/emotional affection. Without the parents around, their reliance on stuffed animals makes sense. They probably hug the animal a lot and, from my experience, well loved stuffed animals aren’t quite as soft as they once were.

First line: Mr. Kili’s mane feels more like the fraying mop in the kitchen than yarn the night that Janet decides he’s the only friend she’ll ever need.

Keep reading