The first, a drabble I did a few years ago regarding the woman who would become my wife titled “Love”:
His love was a twisted thing, convoluted and confounded like a mass of Christmas lights tangled into a ball and shoved in a box. It was complex, flowing this way and that in myriads of directions and never in a straight line; an ever-shifting, always-growing heap of emotion with its own weight and gravity, maddening to try and figure out but beautiful to behold. It’d been that way always since he’d first met her many years ago.
He loved that she tangled him up in knots. His love for her was knotty, and that thought always made him giggle.
The second, another drabble entitled “Nightmare”:
Doctor Shacklestiff’s scalpel-fingers slid easily beneath the man’s scalp and with a few quick motions, like unscrewing a jar, he peeled back the man’s skin. His bound victim moaned in fear.
Pride filled the doctor’s black, clock-work heart as he cracked the man’s skull with a rusted pick. He picked off bone like the shell of a hard-boiled egg and thrust his fingers deep within, stirring. The man screamed and Shacklestiff’s sewn-on smile widened. Still screaming, the man vanished suddenly, the doctor’s gore-covered fingers hanging in mid-air.
He’d been a dream once. He preferred being a nightmare so much more.
And finally, “Fire”:
Baltharagon breathed in deeply, his membranous wings quivering with delight at the smell of smoke on the air. It felt like eons since he’d last been free, and he found freedom exhilarating.
“Duke Baltharagon!” Cixaxis, captain of his centaur-like cavalry, shouted. Baltharagon’s army was returning to him across the great hanging bridge.
Pride filled Cixaxis voice, hooves stamping. “Our forces were successful, the humans pathetic. Even now the ember wurms fire the city and the bane hounds hunt for survivors.”
“Excellent! We move south to the Arch.”
“Lord, what was the name of this city?”