Drip... Drip
The dripping would drive another person mad.
Drip... Drip
Not me. I’ve been here for three days. Hanging.
Drip... Drip
It came from the painting. The ocean. The waves. A lighthouse. Peace.
Drip... Drip
It emerged from the water. Slowly. Over days. Weeks. It consumed the lighthouse.
Drip... Drip
More tentacles than body. It broke free.
Drip... Drip
I can’t see it. Not really. It moves... sporadically. Through time. Through space.
Drip... Drip
It doesn’t belong here. It’s always hungry. Soon, the bucket below me will be full. I will be empty.
Drip... Drip
Then it will eat.
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alt="To Cleave the Crone by E.M. McCormack"
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height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="They Only See Me When I Cry by Alara Rogers"
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>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="The Last Leprechaun by Dakria"
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loading="lazy"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Sitting on Aine's Cursed Stone by Crystal N. Ramos"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
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>