The writer, the creator, falls into disrepute. He reached up a slow hand to touch my chin. Punky smiled once, gently, and murmured, “I’m hurt, Olaf, help me . ]—openings or endings of stories that could be included in THE YEAR’S WORSTFANTASY AND SF.
I looked into those lavender eyes, and just the intensity of my gaze, drew him closer, close enough to rest his cheek against my seat. It looked up at her with shiny black button eyes. She didn't exactly tower over me, but she was tall. Every time I thought there was no other way he could tear me up, he found a new way.
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