Honey’s on the run. Mainly from her mother’s witch boyfriend.
She’s still not clear on the specifics of disposing the previously possessed cat.
A now very dead cat currently in her rucksack being jostled as she wove her bike with break-neck ferocity through Erin’s doused back alleys.
Above head, the old brick buildings thrust into the predawn sky like a rude gesture. It seemed normal enough with your mottled purples, pinks, and blues after an unholy downpour.
But look closer and one would fall on one’s ass at the swirling undercurrents that seemed to peer down with a curious sentient gaze.
That’s never a good thing.
Hot Chocolate And Books 