The Curse of Pooh

A strange beast, this Universe is. A.A. Milne wrote many things in his lifetime. Including plenty of books intended for adult audiences. Books he was personally proud of. To his slight chagrin, it was ultimately the Winnie-the-Pooh stories that made him famous. His son, Christopher Robin Milne, bitterly resented him for using him as the namesake and inspiration for the least interesting character in said stories. He had a bitch of a time getting laid because he never outgrew the public image his father gave him as a little boy who likes to play with dolls, and eventually had to marry his cousin. It was a resentment the younger Milne took to his own grave. Yet, it was from that cesspool of chaos and disappointment and familial strife that Winnie-the-Pooh emerged. Like a lotus flower blossoming out of a shark-infested swamp…

The Bullhorn of SILVER BROWN

A Fire For Yule (last phoneme optional)

Hark! An anti-miracle of Unnature is unfolding! This literary creature growing like a Xenomorph inside my innards is due to undergo the first of many moltings in a fortnight. It should be quite a ghoulishly surreal sight to behold, although I would advise against touching its discarded exoskeleton without asbestos gloves, lest it sting you all jellyfish-like and summon an unholy swarm of extradimensional maggot-like creatures to feast upon your suddenly withered and gangrenous stub of a hand. Using it like a Frisbee to play catch with your dog probably isn’t such a hot idea either, unless you don’t mind Fido growing an udder and an extra head.

In the meantime, get cozy by the fire. When the thing hatches, you’ll know.