Fiction Circular 12/19/20

A weekly dispatch of creative writing from around the web by Kaiter Enless.


From Ceres Eithne: Alongside Fear. A woman, failing to find comfort in therapy and medication, grapples with her increasingly disturbing psychological malaise.

“She had a nightmare last night: a horrifying one that carried small bits of the occurrences she had buried deep down in her heart…”


From Danika’s Memory Box: Dinner. A series of sentimental letters weave a patchwork tale of one man’s dark ruminations.

“I’ve heard rumors that she still loves me. Rumors, rumors, rumors… I don’t know what is true anymore. If she loved me, if she truly loved me then why would she do this? I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t…”


From Elizabeth Fiction Writing: The Man On The Train. A unlikely meeting on a train prompts a woman to recall her musical childhood.

 “The memory faded as soon as we were out of the tunnel and I could once again see everything around me. I shook my head as if it would help me clear my thoughts. Surely, the man on the train couldn’t be the same person?”


From Fiction Is Food: Elysium by Gary Jefferies. Two travelers brave a wild land in which a monstrous beast is said to lurk.

“I can see a sorcerers haze where the tracks end. I think it’s Elder Magic, maybe a portal.”


From Fictive Dream: A Meeting in Fitzrovia by Mike Fox. An aspiring writer seeks the advice of a talented poet in a crowded pub.

“The craftsmanship of his generation could speak of an artist’s sensibility, a fact recognised by a number of authors, who took the trouble to write and thank him when the first pristine copies of a book arrived to reward their long hours of effort.”


From Kyro Books: The Carnival by K. T. Rose. A homeless musician’s fortunes change when he encounters a mysterious masked man.

“But what is joy? So dead and coy Just ask this man Who’s still a boy”


From Richard R. Becker: Might As Well Jump. A taciturn boy’s bicycle ride takes a unexpected turn, presaging a series of dire events.

“‘Liam, come quick!’ she hollered. ‘The President’s been shot.'”


From The Inkwell: North Pole by Matthew Donnellon. A humorous Christmas fantasy, reminiscent of the 1964 claymation made-for-TV movie Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

“The air in the makeshift snow cave was only slightly warmer than the air outside. Luckily, our Elvish DNA kept us from freezing but just barely.”

Update on fiction and poetry submission guidelines

To further distinguish our site from other literary ventures, Logos will no longer be accepting works of prose and verse that have been previously published, whether online, in print, or both, and, from now on, will only accept original, unpublished manuscripts of prose and verse. Excerpts from a novella, novel or poetry collection slated to be published, however, may still be accepted.

Fiction Circular 8/1/20

A weekly dissemination of fiction writing from around the web by Kaiter Enless.


From Caliath: Notes on the Creative Corpse by Joao-Maria (a poem concerning the creative process).

To dispetal the cosmos and the cosmos, place those steatic specs upon the unreeling…

J.M., Notes on the Creative Corpse

From Cyberwave: Coloring For Karen (a scifi short story).

With a wave of his hand the boy produced magnificent shapes and formed islands out of the empty ocean while standing on the cliff. His eyes were closed but he knew he didn’t need them. He used his imagination without bounds, and without the influence of external stimuli.

– Cyberwave, Coloring For Karen

From Jan Christensen: Sad Victory (a mystery short story).

“Of course I’m okay.” Her mouth twisted around the slang word disagreeably.

– J. Christensen, Sad Victory

From Horror Tree: Pale Horse by Lynn Love (a tale concerning a man who may or may not be crazy hears a voice that may or may not be there).

‘That ain’t no wind,’ he says. ‘There’s a voice. Can’t you hear it?’

– L. Love, Pale Horse

From The Chronicles of History: Beyond The Trees by Samantha James (a short story of the fantastique).

A young orphaned girl flees her home one afternoon and finds herself lost in a big scary forest. The child becomes injured but is assisted by an unlikely companion that claims to know the way to the girl’s home at the abbey. Not all is as it seems …

– S. James, synopsis

Fiction Circular 7/25/20

A weekly dissemination of fiction writing from around the web by Kaiter Enless


From Little Tales For Busy Folks: The Corridor by Vic Smith. A subterranean adventure takes a unnerving turn. Would be aided by more character development.

I was convinced there was something down here with me. I could hear breathing. I couldn’t tell how far away it was, or where the sound was coming from, but I was sure it was there

– V. Smith, The Corridor

From New Pop Lit: Zeenith, a fiction and poetry collection featuring Brian Eckert, Mark Marchenko, Holly Day, Chrissi Sepe, Kathleen M. Crane, Robert Kaercher, Erin Knowles Chapman, and James Croal Jackson. The volume is available for purchase for $25 via Paypal, or credit-card.

Full color. State of the art. Hand crafted. Sleek and stylish.

– Promotional tag-line for Zeenith

From Scraps & Scribblings: Goodnight, Sweet Prince by Richard Tearle. Macabre historical fiction. Seems a fragment of a larger work.

 George has gone too far. You can see that, surely? He has taken the law into his own hands – my law, let it be noted.

– R. Tearle, Goodnight, Sweet Prince

From Short Stories Online: Progressive Jackpot by Shane Lambert. A raffle takes place at a bowling league. Instead of telling by showing action the author simply lists off what occurs, week by week, which makes the story read, unfortunately, like a news article.

Almost all of the other Beer Leaguers had their own minor-league fantasies about what they would do if they won the money. One lady wanted to be a bar star for a weekend at a local country club. Another guy wanted to place a bet on the Edmonton Oilers winning the Stanley Cup. Another simply would have bought a new RCA television.

– Shane Lambert, Progressive Jackpot

From T. W. Iain: Ghost. A chronicle of a daring thief’s plan. At first, I assumed it was going to be one of those insufferably drippy slice-of-life flash-shorts which forms the great bulk of what is redundantly referred to as ‘literary fiction;’ thankfully, my assumption was incorrect. The piece develops its two principal characters impressively well with so few words and builds to a surprising, bittersweet crescendo.

The casket was closed, of course. She’d refused any suggestion of surgery.

– T. W. Iain, Ghost

From Vastness: Discount Baby by H. W. Taylor. A speculative sci-fi tale concerning a future wherein certain classes are prohibited from childbirth, a situation which prompts a enterprising and childless couple to attempt to trick the system. A superb work, which, in the most positive of ways, reminded me, faintly, of Andrew Niccol’s Gattaca.

Best of the week.

She was protecting him, by letting him give her hope.

– H. W. Taylor, Discount Baby

Kryos: Chapter 9

Previous chapter

“What are you going to do?”

Ryard Vancing stared out the window of the tenement flat and turned to the querious woman with whom he shared it, his face a fretting blank.

“I’ve no idea.”

He looked back to the reflective pane and noticed the unruly whorls of his hair, matted his tresses and put his hands in his pockets, surveying the deteriorating vista. Consortium drones swarmed the air to the north, vainly attempting to dissuade the rioters who there stormed the streets. Ryard noticed a thin column of smoke building beyond the broil in the hazy distance of the eatery district. “Mechanical failure?” He wondered with rising agitation, “Or arson?”

“Indecision is uncharacteristic for you,” Lind Howell declared with concern, filling two cups with hot coffee from a insulated metal container, which sat the table in the middle of their small, plainly furnished living room; the device was battered, ornateless and strange against the black-matte tabletop, a relic from a bygone age, inherited from Howell’s late uncle, who had himself inherited the item from his father. Lind raised a cup to Ryard, who ambled to the couch and took it, setting himself heavily down with a sigh. He pressed the cool glass to his forehead and then took a sip before speaking.

“I suppose it is. I just don’t want to make the situation worse.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t.”

“No you’re not.”

“I’m trying to be supportive.”

“I know.” He forced a smile and swirled his glass, watching the bean juice slush like oxidized blood. He frowned briefly, set the glass down and slowly rotated it with his fingertips. “How was work?”

She sighed, “Terrible. More so than usual. Had to spend almost the entire morning cloud-side.”

“Because of the riots?”

She nodded, “Watched it spread. Like a bushfire in a high wind. Had to go up and retether one of the aerostats just beyond Southern. Someone, or ones, had cut it free. Haven’t got an ID yet. They must have thought it would just float away.”

Ryard raised his glass suddenly, “A toast, to our invaluable sky-techs.”

The woman half-heartedly raised her glass and downed the rest of its contents.

“I just don’t know what’s gotten into people lately…”

“I suspect the Eastern Federation has had a heavy hand in it. This recent chaos.”

“I heard some people talking about it on the news. The Federation envoys say that allegations of their involvement in the protests and the riots are just propaganda. I don’t know what to think. Everything that the media comes out with is propaganda about propaganda. You said it was Lanning that contacted you?”

“Yeah. Still had that ridiculous coat. I suppose he thinks its stylish. Said his wife and daughter have been getting on better, after the move.”

“Lanning’s wife had the right idea. Moving to the colonies.”

Ryard shook his head and rose, “I’ve heard a lot of talk like that recently. Of departing the city because of the southers coming in, or because of the way the Consortium has changed, or because of the Federation’s subversion; I can’t agree with it. I’m glad Lanning’s family are happy now, but consider what would happen if most people here thought that way; if most people decided to pack up and leave the moment things take a turn for the worst. When conflict becomes unavoidable. When fear flares. Its uncivilized.”

“Uncivilized?”

“Civility is more than manners.”

Next chapter

Kryos: Chapter 8

Previous chapter

Ryard Vancing silenced his affin module upon the callithumpian sidewalk and craned his neck up at the immense facade of KSRU headquarters, which rose above the surrounding buildings of Southern Block like a prodigious, concrete anvil, condensed at the eyrie. Lanning tapped his foot with impatience. After a matter of seconds, a drone descended from a slot in the edifice’s sleek veneer and hovered before the entrants. Lanning proffered his affin module to the drone’s scanner, whereupon the aerial machine issued a series of clicks and flew away as the large, twin doors to the high compound opened with a hydraulic hiss. The duo traversed a long, narrow, glassy-floored lobby and emerged therefrom to a great and vaulted hall, the entrance to which was guarded by two men with white-plated armor, undergirded by dark, coriaceous bodysuits; Kryos Industries insignias visible on their left pauldrons. Lanning greeted the guards and gestured cordially to his companion.

“This is Ryard Vancing. He’s expected.”

The guards swiftly parted, stiffened and, to Ryard’s surprise, saluted him solemnly. When the pair were beyond ear-shot of the sentinels, Ryard arched a brow and turned to his orange-clad escort.

“What was that?”

“You helped save the city, Ryard. Most people have forgotten about it, but they haven’t, and they respect you for it. Ah, there he is. Allow me to introduce you to Colonel Syzr. Though I should warn you, he’s not keen on small-talk.”

Lanning gestured to a large armatured man, who stood gazing intently at a enormous monitor which hung from the ceiling at the end of the hall, behind which a double stair with cupreous railing led to an upper landing. Syzr spoke without breaking from his enterprise; his voice radiating mechanistically through a polished vermeil helm.

“Greetings, Mr. Vancing.”

“Its an honor to meet you, Colonel.”

The Colonel turned sharply and fixed Ryard in what the guest could only assume to be his gaze, for his face was fully palled, his eyes, veiled by the lenses of his tactical mask.

“The honor is mine,” the Colonel replied demurely, extending a plated hand to his guest, who shook firmly, wincing as he did so.

“Lanning tells me Vera… er, Ms. Straker wanted a word. Is she here?”

“She will be down momentarily.”

Syzr turned to Lanning and gestured toward the door. Lanning bowed cordially, turned heel and departed. Shortly thereafter, a woman entered the hall from the rightward stair; decisive, pale and of middling height, garbed in a tight, high-collared white coat with black inner lining, visible in the vestment’s tails. Her long, raven hair, secured by a slender argent band. Her cold, primly restrained visage warmed slightly as she took the guest’s measure.

“Mr. Vancing. I see you’re still in the habit of combing with a windstorm.”

Ryard self-consciously raised a hand to his head.

“Uh, its good to see you too, Ms. Straker.”

“I’m glad you saw fit to heed my summons. I would have approached you myself, but you have doubtless seen what it is like out there.”

“Your face would be more readily recognized than Lanning’s,” he replied, matting his birdnest tresses, “A target for any radical with a grievance, real or imagined. And certainly, you could not have sent Mr. Syzr – given how omnipresent he is in the news cycle. I quite understand.”

“Its precisely that kind of keen perception we need. And I appreciate time’s scarcity. So I shall be brief. Mr. Kryos has tasked me with the reformation of the KSRU. He desires a transition from anti-terror operations to general policing – a move the Colonel has long advocated and the Constorium have long opposed. Mr. Syzr aims to integrate the KSRU into the block’s defensive infrastructure, and has the green-light from the mayor to do so. I want you to help him with the transition.”

“Help how? I don’t know much about security systems.”

“I keep Lanning on retainer for that. I want you to help us facilitate our message to the people. To gain their trust.”

“You want me to be your propaganda minister?”

“If that’s what you want to call it. The city is disintegrating before our eyes, the consequence of decades of madcap policy and a burgeoning population.”

She gestured to Syzr who switched on a series of feeds, each showing a different genre of barbarity. In the upper right hand corner of the screen was a intricate chart displaying incidence of institutionally recognized crimes. One panel displayed a newsfeed from Aecer Digest, the largest news corporation in the city, wherein aerial footage ran of three men assaulting a woman in an alley with the headline, “Riots continue after Kryos-connected vigilante killing.”

Syzr shook his head and crossed his arms about his vermeil-plated chest as Straker took a seat and lit up a cigarette; she offered one of the neat, psychoactive cylinders to Ryard, but he politely declined.

“Affin tampering, patch distribution, muggings, rapes, and murders are all on the rise. Revolutionary parties and gangs are emerging at breakneck speed. Worse, the Consortium refuses to do anything substantial about it. I shouldn’t have to elaborate – you saw the riots. The people are losing confidence in the system’s ability to protect them. It remains with us to restore that confidence.”

“I’ve obligations. To the station.”

“We are willing to pay you double your current weekly credit allotment.”

Ryard nodded, rubbed his chin and looked to his module. The screen of the slender device displayed two missed calls from Lind. No messages left. Lind never left messages.

“I have to go. I’ll think about it.”

“Emergency?”

“Dunno.”

“Very well. Let me know when you come to a decision.”

“I will.”

“Syzr will see you out. And Ryard.”

The man turned expectantly to the exquisite woman.

“Hm?”

“A comb, next time.”

Ryard smiled wryly and left off, following Syzr out of the central hall, to the lobby which roiled with commotion. A group of local workers were arguing with KSRU clerks at the reception desk.

“A good a time as any to introduce you to the members of the Aecer Center for Social Progress,” Syzr declared, nodding towards the men and women waiting in the lobby, “They’ve been working with us to build a relationship between the labor unions and my men. That’s their leader, there.”

Ryard followed Syzr’s gesture to a slender man with a chartreuse coat and short, neatly slicked hair, who stood slightly apart from the men arguing with the clerks behind the counter, hands in his pockets, eyes taking in the contours of the walls and ceiling. After hearing the sound of encroaching footsteps, the man with the pale green coat quickly turned to the duo and waltzed toward them with easy, languid strides.

“G’day Colonel. Dreadful what they’ve been saying about you. Truly dreadful. But you’ve a new friend. One whose face I recognize. You must be Ryard Vancing.”

The man extended a curiously bandaged hand to the CAV-keep. Ryard took the man’s hand and shook amiably.

“That’s me. And you are?”

The man with the chartreuse coat flashed a charming smile.

“Illander Rehdon.”

Next chapter

The Silence & The Howl, and, Tatter, now available from Gumroad

The novellas THE SILENCE & THE HOWL (2020) and, TATTER (2020) by Kaiter Enless are now available from Gumroad in EPUB formats.

Previously, Logos Literature ebooks were available exclusively to our Patreon patrons, but, understandably, not everyone will want to support on a continual basis; and so, for those who wish to purchase our ebooks directly, Gumroad will now be the place to do so.

Fiction Circular 7/11/20

A weekly dissemination of fiction writing from around the web.


From Bill Chance: Neiman’s (Part 1). The author skillfully weaves a twist-ending by means of a simple, but clever, linguistic trick.

A severed head in a shopping bag weighs a lot more than I thought it would.

– B. Chance, Neiman’s

From Book Funnel: A Dead Man’s Story (Parts 1-36) by M. Wright. Minimalistic neo-noir, slickly written.

I see a body on a bench with a half-loaded syringe & a bullet in his head. I have my story.

– M. Wright, A Dead Man’s Story

From Idle Ink: Measuring Time by Craig Lamont. The story of a pregnancy; unlikely, as every other. The best of the week.

Across the shadow line of this hemisphere a wall of dreams is taking shape

– C. Lamont, Measuring Time

From The Inkwell: In The Land of Monsters by M. Donnellon. A very short tale of a intrepid hunter’s journey into a dangerous forest. In my opinion, our protagonist should have traded in his bow for a Browning.

He returned scarred and screaming. He said there were dragons in Old Zafar…

– M. Donnellon, In The Land of Monsters

From Literary Yard: The Crime Scene by James Glass. ‘The Crime Scene’ is a fitting title, as it really isn’t a complete story, but a fragment of one and wholly focused around the scene of an underhanded deed. Why the deed was commissioned and who the perpetrator was and whether or not he or she or they will be caught, remains to be seen (hopefully in a continuation).

On the bed lay the dead body of Richard Barrington. By all accounts it appeared the man had died in his sleep. But over the years, she’d learned appearances could be deceiving.

– J. Glass, The Crime Scene

From Richard Becker: Leftovers (part of his 50 States series, preceded by The Sweeper). A gripping, mournful tale of one rural family’s dark past.

Seeing her grandmother hunched there in her flannel robe over a yellow cup with a backdrop of rolling plains brought back memories. But it still felt so incomplete. There should be three cups on the table, with her grandfather’s being the largest and set down by the wide-mouthed ashtray he used to tap out the spent embers of his cherry pipe tobacco.

– R. Becker, Leftovers

Compiled by Kaiter Enless

Kryos: Chapter 7

Previous chapter

Ryard Vancing adjusted his coat collar and surveyed the crowds marching through the streets below the main CAV-way warily. Individually, the discordant multitude was unremarkable, composed of both men and women, young and old; the general heterogeneousness of their dress suggesting spontaneity of organization. There were mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, CAV-keeps and sky-techs, street-sweepers, artists and vagabonds, some with signs, most without. All particularities of the wild conglomeration evanesced in the novel meta-organism that roiled across the pedestrian lane with stark ferocity, howling to self and sky, breaking windows and signs as assurance drones of the Consortium moved to meet it. Chastising the malcontents with workshopped slogans.

Vancing idly wondered why the Consortium had their drones fly so low, where any volatile fool with a blunt object to-hand could strike them down.

As he watched the fray, he listened to the newsfeed on his wrist-bound module; an Aecer Digest roundtable discussion between a female anchor and two middling-profile pundits.

“-ight. Would you agree with Ms. Choufey, Mr. Sabin?”

“Not at all. He killed two people. He’s a maniac. The KSRU are not law enforcers, they’re mercenaries for Kryos Industries. Hired guns. The guy should be arrested.”

“Arrested? He should be given an award.”

“I’m beginning to think you’re as crazy as he is.”

“What kind of society is it, where you’re called ‘crazy’ for saving a woman from god-knows-what?'”

His module lit up, breaking the passenger from his oneirism. Call incoming. He looked swiftly to the name displayed on his bracer’s screen: Lind Howell. Vancing accepted the transmission request, listening as he continued to anxiously observe the mob pump their fists into the air and smash up the storefronts below.

“Ryard, are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“Oh, thank goodness. I was worried sick about you.”

“Its not as if they’d clamber onto the CAV-way.”

“No. I guess not. I don’t know. Things have gotten so… I just had a bad feeling.”

“You and me both. I’m coming up on the way-station. I’ve gotta go. I’ll be home soon.”

“Alright. Stay safe, Ryard.”

“You too.”

He closed out the line and leaned back in his seat with a sigh as his lev-han shot beyond the pedestrian overpass and pulled into the eatery district substation shift-yard, just beyond Southern Block. His vehicle parked and opened the leftern passenger door, whereupon Ryard exited and, with practiced ease, strode to the back of the machine and removed two large cases, which he carried, one in each hand, as he walked into the station.

Inside a pert woman at the counter held up her hands in entreaty as a small, olive-skinned man gesticulated frustratedly.

“Its just cause I’m an outsider, isn’t it?”

“No. Sir, please calm yourself, I’m doing all I can.”

“That so?”

“We don’t have any more vehicles at present. We’re working at full capacity, and-“

“Lying bitch! I know how you people operate!”

Ryard set the rough-worn cases down gently and raised his calm, clear voice above the commotion.

“What’s the problem?”

“Who’re you?” The man snarled, whirling upon the entrant.

“Ryard Vancing. I’m the station manager. Now, what’s the problem?”

“Wait… I know that name. You’re that guy… who stopped the terrorists at the cemetery, couple of years back.”

“I am.”

“Ah. Well, its just-,” the man looked to the woman behind the counter and then to his shoes, unable to meet Ryard’s gaze, “Its my wife… she needs medicine regularly and we don’t have the credits for a home crafter and… and I needed to get to Southern Block for her medication – but there’s no damn vacancies in the line. She’s… not doing well… and…”

The man began to cry and turned away in shame.

“I just don’t want to lose her.”

Ryard reached out and put a firm hand upon the distraught man’s shoulder.

“I understand your frustration. But you shouldn’t lash out at Victoria, she was telling the truth. Lot of my workers have gone out to protest. So, line and vehicle maintenance has been suboptimal.”

The man nodded and, with considerable effort, looked up toward the woman behind the counter.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I shouldn’t have-“

“Its quite alright.”

Ryard took the man some distance from the counter, mouthing “sorry I was late” at Victoria over his shoulder, to which the woman, with relief and exasperation, mutely lipped a “thank you.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Wasil.”

“Well, Mr. Wasil, you said you needed to get to Southern Block.”

“Yes,” the man replied despairingly.

“A vacancy just opened up. I live in Southern Block and was just headed home. I’ll give you a lift.”

The small man’s eyes widened and he took Ryard’s left hand in his own and pressed it firmly.

“Bless you, sir.”

With a faint smile Ryard patted the man on the back and walked him outside and down the substation stair to the shift-yard whereupon he discovered a tall man with a long orange coat standing before his lev-han.

“Been a while, Mr. Vancing.”

Ryard regarded the man a long moment before he spoke.

“Hello Lanning.”

Next chapter

Kryos: Chapter 6

Previous chapter

Holleran Meris moved slowly through the main pedestrian thoroughfare of Aecer, relaxing as the warm rays licked his aged and crinkling skin. He wanted a cup of coffee and quiet, without solitude, and trode toward his favorite automat to sate the fickle desire. The street was filled with musicians and migrants, service drones and spruce businessmen, above whom the vast, albescent spires of Central Sector cut up the sky like incandescent brands, girded by the argent lifting envelopes of affinity dispatch dirigibles, whose prodigious shades variegated the bases of the high, glistening towers, and lent, to those magisterial constructs, an appearance of orphic flotation, as if the city’s lofty edifice rose not from the ground, but levitated inertly across the roiling, red horizon.

Meris paused and absorbed the palatial scenery as two children romped by, riant and nescient of the erstwhile striving that had brought forth the vertiginous bailiwick on which they twirled. He watched his people’s apogee turn, rosy cheeked and waving, and raised a hand in avuncular greeting, whereafter they waved back and passed west over the road and melded with the cosmopolitan itinerants, who scurried thickly along the bustling sprawl. Meris turned, left off to the north, and primed the credits in his wrist-borne affin module for the delights of the Wyntwurth automat. As he wound about the corner of the avenue which led up to the restaurant, he froze, perplexed and shocked.

The automat was awash in violence, visible through its diaphanous, polymeric exterior. Everywhere within the building, men collided, one lay upon the floor, bleeding from a deep gash upon his head. The server drones lay overturned, food spilling from their dispensers. A crowd began to form outside the restaurant, some recording the conflagration with their affin modules, others simply observing the row. None possessed of the courage or interest to intervene in the broil. Meris scanned the street; no Consortium security officers were in sight.

As Meris returned his attention to the motorized cafeteria there came, from its harborage, a vivacious blonde, habilimented in sleek running shoes, skin-tight shorts and a crop-top, and a merry, lissom man, clad in a pale green coat with messy hair that fell down just below his eyes. They exited the building at a leisurely pace, curiously unconcerned with the rearward melee, and traversed the lane-borne host, and passed Meris on their way out of the eatry district. As the striking duo moved by, Meris turned and raised his voice above the din.

“What happened?”

The man with the green coat grinned, gazing over his shoulder with blithe gaity.

“Mouse utopia.”

The blonde chuckled and took the man by the arm and, together, they mixed into the jostling throng. Meris’ brows knit in confusion as he watched the pair depart and then in concern as several members of the crowd dashed into the restaurant to restrain the combatants.

Next chapter