He paused, long fingers drumming on the shaft of his bow. The silence of the forest greeted him—that silence that never was. Shrieks of birds, buzzes of bugs, the crunch of something moving in the windblown trees nearby.
Maybe he imagined it.
Then it came again, dispelling that thought, and he jumped over the fallen log, long legs carrying him through the forest.
A scream. Desperate. Filled with terror—and maybe something else that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Bursting through a thicket, an arrow already nocked on his bow, he dropped to one knee, ready to fire—and froze at the sight before him.
In a large, open glade, a mud puddle seemed to be… consuming a young man.
He paused, staring, then fired the arrow. The young man shrieked again, thrashing so huge, thick gobbets of slime flung out of the mud pond and splattered on the grass and bushes. The fletching of the arrow was just visible in the muck, slowly being sucked in with a wet slurp.
Abandoning his bow as a lost cause, he ran over to the edge of the pond of slime and stretched out one arm. “Grab my hand!”
The young man—so liberally covered in goop that he couldn’t even tell what colour his hair was—managed to extricated one arm and reached, fingers trembling.
The mud pulled him in further, grunting and glugging.
Their fingertips grazed each other, then he caught hold and yanked. With a tremendous grunt, he dug in his heels and pulled, gripping the young man’s wrist with both hands. The slime was powerfully strong and seemed reluctant to release its victim, but after several minutes of vein-popping struggle, it relinquished the boy and sent him flying out of the pond. He landed with a thud, and they collapsed together, panting and soaked.
Leto blinked and looked down at the muddy man sprawled atop him. “You aren’t wearing any pants,” he said, surprised.
In the few spots not drenched with mud, the man’s skin flushed deep, violent scarlet. “Crumpets,” he mumbled, burying his head in shame.
Ignoring it, Leto lifted his head and frowned at the pond, burbling in quiet menace. “What was that thing?” he asked, wiping sludge from his lip.
The man scrubbed his face with a mortified groan and rolled off Leto to slump in the long grass, revealing fine blonde hair and embarrassed green eyes. “You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”
His abdomen was engorged, stretched like a balloon fit to burst. The hairy flesh was stretched taught over the swell, and he was covered in mottled patches of ashen white and flushed scarlet. Though his breaths came quick and short, his ribs creaking with effort, his pulse skipped and fluttered beneath clammy, butterfly skin.
It was only a matter of time now. Soon the screams and groans would stop, the frantic twitching of his eyes would cease, and those heaving ribs would stop straining under taut flesh.
My darling friend CB Archer got the idea to write a fanfic short story about two of my characters from CHANGELING, a story of mine that he beta read wait, idea? no no i told him i wanted to know what would happen if…
So he did!
Linked here is the post on his website. But be warned – he writes wonderfully filthy erotica, and you have any sort of aversion to same sex freakiness, maybe don’t go read it. Or do. But don’t bitch to either of us if you’re offended.
Contrary to popular belief, no one ever writes books, makes movies, or becomes a musician for fame, power, or money. They all do it for one thing and one thing only: Fan Art.
I got my first fan art recently and by recently I mean a few months ago but I’m a mook and totally forgot to upload it and gush like another sort of mook.
Contrary to what one might think, it isn’t PURITY fan art, but CHANGELING, unpublished and collecting dust on my hard drive while I write its threequel, I swear. CB himself actually made this art – based on one of the early scenes of CHANGELING in which main character Aisling and her band of merry soldiers gets entangled with bandits bent on assault and robbery.
Aisling (orange) is a pyrophoric mage – meaning she has the innate power to produce and control fire. Leir (blue) is cryonic – meaning she is basically Elsa and can control ice and snow the cold never bothered her anyway.
Tying into this, actually… I was recently writing USURPER, Changeling’s threequel, and I wrote myself into a corner in which I needed lyrics to a ballad. Being completely nonpoetic myself, I commissioned by friend Bethany, a songwriter and poet, to come up with a few lines for me. Inspired by the idea of writing a lament and also the lure of Mars bars Bethany jumped aboard with gusto and wrote not just a few lines, but an entire song – and then decided she wanted to write lyrics to a heroic ballad I had referenced elsewhere in the same chapter.
So, without further ado, one stanza of Winter Song, written by Bethany Sanjenko for USURPER.
When the winter winds came, he put on his boots He opened the door and tightened his noose Now he lays in a grave, shallow and cold No one to have and no one to hold
I’m hella pumped on all this. And according to CB Archer, now I have succeeded!
Also, you should go check out his page and Bethany’s Soundcloud, both linked. His as of yet unpublished book is hysterical, and Bethany is seriously talented.
Cupping hands around a mouth, whispering to emulate screaming crowds. An air-guitar held aloft; a single chord strummed and the arm brought up. Hands patting the metal post of the monkey bars in a frenetic drumbeat. The crunch of gravel as feet land heavily and the devil horns are raised up in defiance.
“I’m gonna do it today!”
“Yeah! I’m ready. The fans are ready. It’s time.”
Feet crunching across gravel. A hissing audience calling encore! encore!
Metal clanging as hands and feet clamber up to the peak of the playground. More devil horns. More enthusiastic hooting and laughing.
A grin. An excited twinkle in innocent eyes.
Another air-guitar; another chord.
Thud thud thud with each eager step—then knees hit plastic and for a moment they scoot smoothly, like a rock god across a stage. Then denim catches on a bump and with a shout a little body tumbles down the slide and lands face-first in the gravel at the foot.
Pop! With a burst of fat, the bacon sizzles in the pan and the house fills with the mouth-watering aroma of frying pig meat. A sting burns your arm, and you glance down to see a red spot forming, but you barely feel the pain. Moving mechanically, you push the bacon with the fork, scraping the tines across the bottom of the no-stick-but-you-totally-have-to-use-Pam-otherwise-it’ll-stick pan.
Another bubble of fat pops and sprays your arm. You sigh.
With a yawn and scuffle of feet, he walks in. His hand grazes your bottom through the thin satin pyjamas; just like with the fat, you barely feel it. It is not lecherous, though you don’t doubt that his intent is. To you, it is little more than an irritating flutter, like a moth circling a flame.
“You’re making breakfast for me?” he says, laughter in his voice. He rounds past you and peers at the stove. “Jesus Christ, you burned the bacon again. You can’t even cook fucking bacon?”
You look up at him and it is as if you are seeing him for the very first time. Seeing clearly, like the fog lifting off the bay on a late fall morning.
Looking him in the eye, you say, “Get bent, Steve,” and smash the frying pan into the side of his head, sending the contents spraying across the room.
With a happy sigh drowned out by his screams, you turn, pick up your mug of steaming coffee, and go to sit on the porch.
Mountains silhouetted in the sunlight, erupting from the earth in majestic pyramid peaks. They pierced the blue summer sky and parted the clouds, and feral beasts lived in the shadows at their feet. Hooting and screaming, filthy and tangled, these small, gangling beasts ran and loped around the bases of the mountains. Tiny feet kicking up clouds of dust and sending rocks clattering; hands with sandy backs, grime shoved beneath nails; faces freckled and brown by the sun, wide with smiles that exposed Chiclet teeth, bracketed by lines of joy caked with dirt that aged them like miniature geriatric chimpanzees. Laughing and running and kicking and shoving until the sky turned from clear blue to a haze of orange and purple, and the dark forced them to leave the empty subdivision still in construction—their mountain range of gravel and sand.