Pondscum_The Sentencing Of W. J. Whetstone_Never Trust an Icosohedron_Cards with Cassandra
Catalog Guide:
Pondscum
I knew his type. The type of lily-livered trickster who could trap someone with his tongue from a mile away. The type of slimeball whose oily charm served as lubricant to get away with whatever he pleased. The type of pondscum whose eyes were as dark and inscrutable as the bottom of a bog, opaque enough to hide behind. He was smartly dressed in a crisp brown suit, but I knew better than to be fooled by clean attire. His slick skin shone under the fluorescent lights as he smarmed his way up to the counter, and I made a mental note to mop the floors after he left. “Hello . . . Iris,” he said, re...
The Sentencing Of W. J. Whetstone
W. J. Whetstone, a retired navy admiral stood up for sentencing. A tall lean gray-haired man of weather-worn countenance who seldom smiled. He grunted as he shifted his weight off his left knee onto the African Blackwood walking cane with a golden lion’s head for a handle.A dislike of snobbish folks permeated his entire being. Their arrogant know-it-all attitude got on his last darn nerve. Judge Kathlyn Driscoll sitting up high on her bench in the florescent-lit, cold, disinfected smelling courtroom was no exception.He rubbed the back of his lwww.onedoor.cceft hand across his parched lips. His mouth tasted ...
Never Trust an Icosohedron
“How dare you refuse me a discount, mortal!” The icosohedron yelled, nearly rattling the wooden walls of Kerrik’s damp apartment above the goldsmith.“Shh!” Kerrik said in a loud whisper. “You don’t want the neighbors to hear us, do you? Also, I’m not exactly mortal myself,” he said, pulling at his gray flesh.Kerrik’s client turned a shade of green usually reserved for the freshest lettuce. Kerrik sighed, smoothed out his new coat and tricorn hat and sat back down. “I told you before, you folks are new. You’re not made of cotton candy are you? You’re not a shade or a mannequin? Then you get my ...
Cards with Cassandra
The ornate grandfather clock chimed loudly as the hour hand struck nine. Cassie’s client jumped, glancing around the small, incense-filled room as though she had forgotten where she was. “Oh,” she stammered, “but Cassandra, I have more questions.” “It’s okay,” said Cassie, gathering up her cards and giving the woman’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I can book you in for another appointment in three weeks. Now will that be cash or card?” Shooing her final client out the door, Cassie collapsed on the velveteen couch, releasing her hair from the itchy turban after seven hours of back-to-back sessions. ...