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Weekly Contest #88
In his tiny acorn-cup bed, lined with spider silk and tufts of early green moss, Bugul Noz began to stir. The sun had set several hours before and the sky was aglimmer with ice blue stars dangling like delicious dew drops from a blackbird’s wing. Bugul Noz could just spy them through the jagged hidey hole of the tree trunk he called home. He stretched his scaly limbs and rubbed his dry tongue over what was left of his pointed crooked teeth. Oh what thirst! How he wished he could reach up and grasp one of...
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