Because magical realism can be campy, too.1 min read

Because there’s no 100-word story this week, I’m going to steal a page from Peter Watts, and give you a little glimpse of something…

The cold fog swept across the hillock. I stood, holding the Spear of Fate, while Mark stood behind me, his hand resting thick on my shoulder. He rolled the spaghetti strap of my dress under his fingers, betraying his nervousness. Misty stood beside us, her necromantic wand of bone held ready. The strains of haunting cello music wafted across the air.

Mark looked down at me.

“What?” I said.

Mark continued to look at me. Misty looked over, then shook her head.

“It’s f-ing mood music. Eerie mood music. Like bagpipes, only better and less dead cat-y. Doesn’t it just get you pumped?”

Mark blinked.

“Of course,” Misty said, “getting ready to avoid death at the talons of the minions of Hell isn’t eerie, scary, or nearly enough to get me pumped.”

I reached into my purse and turned off the MP3 player.


writing, magical realism

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