Ever so gingerly, I placed the bottle on the mantle and returned to my book. Realistically, I knew my attention would linger on the liquid, but I attempted to return to the outlandish plot of the story.
I didn't get the chance.
A low rumbling started under my feet and spread forward to the centre of the room. Cracks formed and a long green tongue lolled out. A hell month.
She pulled a small bottle from her robe pocket. A viscous purple liquid sloshed around inside that made me uneasy. I accepted it with a gracious smile and tucked it into my pocket.
"It's for you-know-who." She said matter-of-factly before turning away. I nodded and fingered the cork absentmindedly before closing and locking the door.
A sharp rap on the door drew my attention away from the book on my lap. I peered through the peephole to find an older woman standing there, running her fingers along the wreath of dried flowers. It was Agatha, the kindly woman I occasionally helped to and from the grocery store. I opened the door and welcomed her in.
"Agatha, how're you today?"
"Oh, just fine dearest. I actually came to give you a little present."
Alright, let's do this:
"Let's play a game, to help some of the newcomers make connections: name 5-7 things that interest you but aren't in your profile, as tags so they are searchable. Then boost this post or repeat its instructions so others know to do the same."
I'm Nick, your genderqueer weirdo cousin. A college student by day, massive procrastinator by night. Chronically disorganized, clinically depressed, and trying to get my life in some semblence of order.
Queer weirdo. Cereal aficionado. Exuberent sleeper. Living with depression/anxiety. They or He pronouns.
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