On her neck, a sliced bone, relic of an old god. A gift from her uncle before he marched into the mountains and down the gullet of the world. He had bent down to her level to pat her hair; his hand, the size of a wagon, encased her entire head. She felt six fingers … Continue reading Relic of the Mountain
"I'm in line for a chicken sandwich. The cashier says there's a fifteen-minute wait for spicy. Do I stay, swallowing down stomach rumbles? Or do I go and later regret my lack of fortitude?" Read the rest on Patreon or Medium.
My flash fiction story "Portable Magic" is published in CommuterLit.