Issue #57 -- Dec. 2, 2010
"The Suffering Gallery," by Matthew Kressel
Mielbok stared at the boy. "I'm Mielbok the White Worm! Mielbok the Foul! Mielbok the Eater of Minds! What can you do for me, human? To me, you’re just food not yet ripe. A fruit just waiting to be plucked! Quiet yourself, before you wake the Lady. She'll make a mockery of you!"
"The Suffering Gallery," by Matthew Kressel
Mielbok stared at the boy. "I'm Mielbok the White Worm! Mielbok the Foul! Mielbok the Eater of Minds! What can you do for me, human? To me, you’re just food not yet ripe. A fruit just waiting to be plucked! Quiet yourself, before you wake the Lady. She'll make a mockery of you!"
"A Bounty Split Three Ways," by Peter Kovic
A floating tree starts as a seed in the sky but needs no soil. It takes air, sun, and rain and turns them into leaves and branches. It doesn’t need roots either. It only grows more leaves and branches, until a full-grown floating oak is like an uneven ball of leaves. I asked L'Acoste, are they the work of nature or some wizard so long ago that he had been forgotten? His response was "who knows these things."
From the Archives:
"The Shades of Morgana," by Dean Wells, from BCS #48
Sully could practically feel her glance brushing along his skin like silky smooth lips. It could, more to the point, the thing inside him, exploiting his senses as if they were its own. She stood and stretched, then strolled to the doors of carved tulgey wood that opened into the mews outside. Sully caught her fragrance, the scent of her feminine places, a smell of spice and rich dark petals of bloodleaf. "Sabrina? Don’t get too close."
A floating tree starts as a seed in the sky but needs no soil. It takes air, sun, and rain and turns them into leaves and branches. It doesn’t need roots either. It only grows more leaves and branches, until a full-grown floating oak is like an uneven ball of leaves. I asked L'Acoste, are they the work of nature or some wizard so long ago that he had been forgotten? His response was "who knows these things."
From the Archives:
"The Shades of Morgana," by Dean Wells, from BCS #48
Sully could practically feel her glance brushing along his skin like silky smooth lips. It could, more to the point, the thing inside him, exploiting his senses as if they were its own. She stood and stretched, then strolled to the doors of carved tulgey wood that opened into the mews outside. Sully caught her fragrance, the scent of her feminine places, a smell of spice and rich dark petals of bloodleaf. "Sabrina? Don’t get too close."
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