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Plump Pups 3: A Nightmare's DreamGlory stared down the long road built out of marshmallow bricks and surrounded on either side by chocolate fences with a sense of apathy and indifference. This was not the world she knew, and she was quite aware of that, because last time she had checked, her world's streets were not constructed from giant pieces of confectionaries. The path led into a massive forest, and from there, Glory could not tell, as the woods were so densely packed that it shrouded the rest of the trail in near-total darkness. Glory's tail twitched and her ears folded; she didn't like it, but something, like a force of unknown power, a mysterious gravity, was trying to pull her toward the depths of the mysterious forest. She had to go. She dragged her bouncy, wobbly body along, and she could feel a pang of hunger deep in the confines of her stomach's pit. She looked around; she was almost, just almost, tempted to take a bite out of the fence, but she didn't know where it had been, or what sort of weather condi
the Fat Fairy that Hates my Girlfriend“Yeah, just make yourself at home.” Came a muffled voice from the other side of the door, “I’ll get started on dinner.”
In the living room, a strange girl sat down on the couch. The four dogs that lived alongside Jake and his mother bombarded her with attention, the lot of them with tails wagging and hot heavy panting about. She reciprocated as best she could, struggling to attend to the needs of the overstimulated animals. Two arms wrapped around as much shepherd as she could manage, her hands feebly patting the backs of the larger animals. She was completely unaware that she was being inspected by more than just slobbering animals, entirely oblivious to what peered into the living room from the hallway—a little green eye pressed up to the keyhole...
“Hmph.” A little voice huffed as the pitter-patter of wings sounded behind her, “She’s not that great.”
With her chubby brown hands pressed squarely against the metal doork
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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