In the interest of providing you (my hoary hosts of fans) with a few scraps of content for the day, I give you a little taste of a future classic. I refer, of course, to my Untitled Hungarian Demon-hunter short story. Feedback and praise welcome. Also, I like this pic of St. George and the Dragon. Maybe you will too?
Here’s the excerpt:
Richard Wilson awoke to an unfamiliar sound. It was a dry, scraping, scuttling sound. It was inconsistent. Now a slow purposeful dragging, now ceasing, now returning with scrabbling intensity.
Richard had no earthly idea where he was, but he often began his mornings that way. The Vodka often left him places without explanation. So far as he could tell, Richard was inside. That was different. Usually the shelters wouldn’t allow you to spend the night if you showed up drunk. So where am I? he wondered. The Vodka didn’t know either.
As Richard’s mind resumed normal operations, he was dimly aware that whatever was making the scraping, scratching noise was moving around him. Back and forth, back and forth. It reminded Richard of how his childhood dog would dance and jump in anticipation of its dinner. Whatever this was, it was much bigger than a dog.
He realized, to his horror, that he had a bag over his head. The return of his senses told Richard his hands were bound with rough rope. His shirt was gone and he could feel smooth irregular stone beneath him. His pulse quickened and he began drawing quick, shallow breaths. Panic was rising in his breast. The scrabbling noise continued.
Want more? Tell me about it. Want less? Screw you.