by Robert Gryfft
"Honey, I'm home!" he sang in skullrending chorus.
She scuttled to him with a shrieking glass of bubbling liquid night. She handed him the beverage and wheezed, "How was work?"
"Souls, souls, souls," he rumbled, clearing his throat with mindraping abandon.
She rolled her thousand crimson eyes. "Dinner'll be ready in an eon or two."
Sunday, March 9, 2008
R'lyeh, Sweet R'lyeh
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