Crabapple soup: what demons are served when they slither through the Dream House portal. Dipping a splintered claw, Fifomene checks for poison. Two grams hemlock. Grinning, he tilts the plastic bowl, pouring hot liquor down his throat.
"My mother's milk was more toxic," he gloats.
She adjusts a slumping Elmo in his chair. "Check the bottom."
A fanged K scrawled in red.
She lifts a finger, where yesterday a doctor had poked her. Smoke billows up.
"Rune-brat! Pint-sized wh—" With a poof, he's gone.
Outside the door, her granny smiles. Demons always were suckers for a witch's tea party.
Author bio: R.S. Bohn lives on one side of a moat and talks to crocodiles. Carries a trident everywhere. Drinks navy-strength rum. Has failed 'Talk Like a Pirate Day' six years running.
Tea is part of 101 Fiction issue 15.
Wonderful post.A sweet story it is.
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