Pitch and Rust

by T.C.W. Stray

When I woke up it was dark. I stretched, soaking up the warmth of my comfortable bed, and spared an arm from my nest of blankets to flick the curtains blocking the window above my bed to one side. The stars were covered by thick clouds and the moon was absent entirely. Cold radiated from the glass, chilling my flesh. I pressed my hand to the smooth pane and waited. Outside, a shadowy figure echoed my gesture with a palm twice the size of mine, fingers half again as long, and skin the color of rust.


T.C.W. Stray spends most of the day sleeping and most of the night working. Everything left over is spent writing and reading and daydreaming to excess. If one could get rich from such antics, T.C.W. Stray would put the Monopoly Man to shame.