2023/01/13 #DailyWrittenOOM

Create, with fire on ten, with driven fire, and the knell of fire; dimming the shapes, the parted shapes and sharpened forking tongues, dreams of feathering blades in the belly of the body. Right fan of left lined framed wind, winding cords of blowing, knotted staves of pounding thrum.

Set up the trill of magnificent winters, never were the standards so ranged, the simmering so tight and tangy, the knife so significant where it lies. Tripled ardour in the set arches, ribbed tunnels under the land and sky; knotted staves take the beating from the stripes of light and shadow under the half tunnelled ways; drag the dream to the brink, and fuel the fire with glittering coals.

2023/01/13 #DailyWrittenOOM

2023/01/12 #DailyWrittenOOM

Martha heard the telephone ring, but when she lifted it from the hook, the little black phone writhed and twisted like a black ferret, and vibrated with a resonant, whining snarl; she flung the phone down on the counter.

She went to the sink to dash some cold water on her face, but when she turned on the tap the faucet shook, and vomited out steaming black sludge.

After this second fright, she ran to leave the house: but when she reached for the door-knob, the metal unzipped into toothed jaws which barked fiercely at her.

With a sad moan, she fled to the couch, and wrapped herself in a blanket.

Some moments later, she was startled when the door opened, and her husband stepped in with a crackle of some strange energy.

“Ah, good,” he said, clearly relieved to see her.

“Oh, Dear,” she said (saying two things at once), “what has been happening? It was horrid…”

“Yes, well, there was a certain demonic beast whelp who had just cast a curse that anything electrically conductive you touched would soon shock and kill you. I’ve just taken care of the little devil,” (he brushed a bit of ashes from his coat) “but I had our gremlin, Skinley, keep you from touching anything conductive meanwhile.”

Skinley stepped out from behind a table-leg: his membranous wings drooped, as well as the hooked nose and elephant grey skin of his face. The tip of his wand was still red hot. Martha knitted her brows.

“Couldn’t he have just told me?”

“You would have died from the curse then; it was a cunning whelp,” her husband said.


She couldn’t bear Skinley’s big, sad eyes any longer, and beckoned him to receive a hug and be comforted. In the process she received a burn from his still hot wand on her cheek.

“Ow! Careful with that, buddy,” she said. “And thank you for saving my life, little friend.”

2023/01/12 #DailyWrittenOOM