Local lore
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Summary
The hairs trembled on the back of his neck. "What? Everyone in my family? Including me? No, I'm not a witch."
"Oh, but you must be. You see, I only talk to witches, and only when I want to. Ask your grandmother."
Kevin bit his lip. "But– but magic isn't real. I'm going to be a scientist who builds robot friends and babysitters. And before I do that, I'm going to be a dentist until I can support myself on robots alone. I can't be a witch!"
The cat winked. "Sure, hon. And I can't be a korrigan who broke Da Rules by falling in love with a crazy Fairy-hunting human. Guess we're both a bit insane."
As it turns out, Dimmsdale, California is no Peachfield, Idaho. As of 7:33 this evening, Kevin Crocker has hopped off the bus ready to spend a summer with an uncle and grandmother he's never met. Sigh. At least Uncle Denzel was nice enough to invite some of the neighborhood kids over to welcome him. That'll be fun… right? After all, he'd just be alone in the house otherwise… right?
Begins the Friday before "Chip Off the Old Crock" and ends the morning of "Chloe Rules."
Series
- Part 12 of 🌈 Rainbow Train [FOP]
- Part 6 of 🧡 Orange Train [High Fantasy]
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Summary
Let me float upon the wind like a scrap of butterfly wing so brutally ripped away or let me sink like a rock skipped and doomed when I must stop skipping. I went into the woods monster bound, whether the one nipping at my heels or something worse deep between the trees, who eats human flesh and yet showed me mercy. 'You have a purpose' the hollow inside me tells me as it swallows me whole while my savior watches from a million miles away. I am a myth born off a single word from a single set of lips, and he is a monster, story spun as vast as I am small. Oh how we tangle, such opposites, how we tangle.
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Summary
In the vast green boughs of Thorp-Russetton, a small, isolated hamlet in the middle of the English countryside sits and watches the world go by. Its residents, a small collection of eccentrics and curiosities, live and laugh in the summer sun, their little hovel of tranquility perfectly preserved from the outside world. But something feels off: there's whispers in the barley, murmurs in the spinnies. Some things are best left below the maypole.
- Language:
- English
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- 1,570
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- 1/?
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