| A Yurble stole my cinnamon roll! |
Circulation: 193,831,355 |
Issue: 717 | 29th day of Sleeping, Y18 |
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Dinner with the Scarlets: Morning Matters
by june_scarlet
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Great stories!
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 Heavy Metal
A Mote. A particle, or speck of dust. A tiny, inconsequential amount of something, usually pictured floating off to nowhere. A little bit of somethingness to punctuate the nothingness. This might be what always made me uneasy, when I thought of motes - that emphasis of space. At least, I think it was; before that day, when I started thinking something else.
by placebo_533 |
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 Beneath the Haunted Woods: Part Seven
The siblings stuck close to the cavern wall as they made their way through the slanted Cliffside. Clara had her back towards the wall, firmly gripping Parlebb’s arm, keeping her from falling over the edge should she lose balance.
by shadowknight_72 |
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