Fractal Realities: Symptoms of Separation

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

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

The cool of the window pane seeped into Roger's skin, bringing blessed cold. In a few minutes it would be too much but for now it felt like relief. Anything to bring down the fever that was overheating his body and stealing his energy. It was worse at night, as if the fever was a nocturnal animal, hungry and feral. Best to get the job done and be on his way.

He slid along the length of the glass, his legs barely able to keep him upright. The inside of the store was dark but the Christmas lights outlined the name of the store in big swooping letters: J's Toy Box. At the recessed entrance to the door, he used the hard wood of the frame to steady himself and try to find his balance.

“You okay there, buddy?” a tentative voice asked from behind him.

Roger looked over his bare shoulder, noting the goose pimples that covered his skin in perfect symmetry, and asked through chattering teeth. "What's it to you?"

"You seem really sick." he replied.

"I'll be fine in a minute. I just need to take back what's mine."


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