glint, Short Fiction

For Stupid King After Flood

Twelve retches in the dark; something cold and slippery crawls up the inside of your throat. Aquamarine scales glisten in the half-light and a tentacled head worships as you pull it out of your mouth. A child laughs in the corner as you sob from relief, calls you stupid, walks to pull you by the ear with surprising strength, over rusted metal, out into blinding sun. A handful of gold cubes are tossed after you. They all manage to clatter against your skull.
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