Dragon Fire Frights: Mephitic

How I wished the mire had taken me that ill-boding day. Or maybe it had, and what lies before you is the leftover, inedible carcass of a man. My dreams decayed: putrescent past the point which not even the most wretched rodents could nibble for nourishment. Yet despite this, I have defied all that is natural by preserving this pathetic existence.

On the morning of my aforementioned misfortune, most unusually, I had been late. As the court's stenographer, I was to be there by 8:00 A.M.. My alarm was set to an hour before the trial, but I had a horrible habit of convulsing in my sleep, and unconsciously, I'd knocked the clock off my nightstand, causing it to shift the time.

Why I Mostly Hate DC Comics

Warning: The following content is the mostly unimportant opinion of a guy on the Internet. Reader discretion and common sense is advised.

OK, I don't really hate DC; they've made some of my favorite comics of all time. But I do hate them, lately: meaning the last 15 years or so. And while I loved the first half of Superman: The Black Ring and Superman: Red Son, I absolutely hated Infinite Crisis and The New 52. And that's a pretty massive chunk of what they've been up to. So without further ado, I give you three of my bigger gripes with the comic empire.

Dragon Fire Frights: Fool's Ghost

An excerpt from page one of The Official Ghost Hunter's Guide to a Haunted House:

"To be a proper investigator, one must stay skeptical and scientific at all times. To achieve this goal, we must use a variety of scientifically proven ghost detecting tools: EMF detectors, digital cameras with infrared capability, hand held tape recorders, Geiger counters, thermal imaging devices, and white noise generators. And it is absolutely imperative to never make logical leaps when concluding whether a ghost is occupying a home or not." - Jim "Jimbo" Johnson

Dragon Fire Frights: The Wolves of Farsolm

Their howling can be heard each night, carried by a cold and bitter winter's wind, across the vast tundras of Farsolm. At its center was a small village encrusted in centuries old layers of ice, which was mostly a rest stop for expeditioners to the north pole and weary truck drivers.

I was the former, in this case:  A surveyor hired for an archaeological dig site. It was my job to accurately record the findings and report the team's progress directly to the financier, Mrs. Morgan York. She was a hermit that few ever met. I had only seen her once, myself, and it was the same day I was hired for this job.