If I Talk About What I'm Good

Old Cob Tucked Away His Bowl Of Stew With The Predatory Efficency Of A Lifetime Bachelor.

Then I Felt Something Inside Me Break And Music Began To Pour Out Into The Quiet. My Fingers Danced; Intricate And Quick They Spun Something Gossamer And Tremulous Into The Circle Of Light Our Fire Had Made. The Music Moved Like A Spiderweb Stirred By A Gentle Breath, It Changed Like A Leaf Twisting As It Falls To The Ground, And It Felt Like Three Years Waterside In Tarbean, With A Hollowness Inside You And Hands That Ached From The Bitter Cold.

I Was Heavily Influenced By My First Attempt At A Novel. I Started A Fantasy Novel Back In High School, And... Well... It Really Sucked. It Was A Plotless, Clichéd Mess.

He Hesitated, Then Lifted His Head And Sniffed. “have You Been Drinking?” The Question Was More Curious Than Accusatory. “no,” Bast Said. The Innkeeper Raised An Eyebrow. “i’ve Been Tasting,” Bast Said, Emphasizing The Word. “tasting Comes Before Drinking.

I'll String A Fiddle With Your Guts And Make You Play It While I Dance.