Borscht Theft

After a delightful dinner courtesy of Cousin Silas, I settled into my arm chair with my electronic copy of Morgue for Whores by the delightfully nefarious Roy Edroso. My feet propped comfortably on a fuzzy lumpkin, a whiskey hugging its ice, and my evening quietly lay ahead of me. (The dragons took tonight’s clear skies to play a game of their own invention; part boggle, part frisbee, and all flying. I have no idea how it could possibly be organized.)

In walks – calm and collected, if you like – an eyeless long-limbed Blue Foonsjab. I’m assuming it was a Blue Foonsjab, I’ve only read about them and there are no photographs of the creatures. Shedding whisps of blue fur, it galomphed straight from the garden to the kitchen. It opened the ice box, pulled the borscht out of the fridge, and filled a canteen that it pulled from the depths of its furriness.

Then, as though this was an every day happenstance, it galomphed straight back to the garden with not a word nor peep. Not even a drop of borscht on the kitchen floor (thankfully) though its canteen was full of the delicious soup.

Now how am I supposed to read after that?

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