I wipe droplets of cold Arkham rain off my phone. Dripping in a rundown hallway at 1 a.m., I text Archmage227 outside his apartment door.
Flash Fiction: The Vessels of Yanoth
Aethereal musings, everyday.
To The North Forest, by Filip Dudek
Fifty Word Fantasy: Trapped
The firefish schooled around them, each ablaze and swimming through air...
Fifty Word Fantasy: House
The loggers reached the dilapidated farmhouse...

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