I’ve got a jar filled with coins I can’t use. It’s my own fault. I tell people I’ll take them across the river and they can pay me whatever they want. Sometimes people give me a hundred dollars. Sometimes one penny. But a lot of the time, it’s these odd octagonal coins with strange markings on them. The people who give me such trinkets as payment usually wear hoods and look like they come from another world. They don’t say much, either. Occasionally I catch a glimpse of their eyes. They glow, like cat’s eyes. Always gives me a shiver.
I’m a novelist, poet, and short story writer living in the Desert Southwest.
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