When Friends are not Friends

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


By the time Kharon showed up, there was virtually no sign of the camp at all. We didn't try to hide the fact that a number of people had been there, but there were no signs of the tents or the campfire. Everything had been packed up and stowed away. Nothing remained that revealed that people had stayed there rather than just wandering through.

I hefted my pack and went to meet him.

Before I got half-way he stiffened, wrinkling his nose. “Son of a Strangler, I remember that smell! Where is he?”

He raised his voice and turned side to side calling out, “Civitas, you dog! Get your rat-livered sack of guts before me. I promise to only beat you what you deserve and no more."

Rounding on me suddenly, he crossed the distance in three great strides that seemed to eat up the distance between us faster than they should, and planted a finger in my chest. "Where is he, Cordos? You can't hide him from me."

Smiling weakly, I offered the truth. "He vanished, nearly before I finished telling him that you were coming."


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I returned to the camp and let them know the good news. “Kharon agreed to help. He hates what the ne…

When Friends Have Already Met

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