Sanji’s Demon, Pt. I

I didn’t have to ask whom he meant, but it seemed that Daiki, in this one regard, was not going to get his wish. The bushi produced two flea-bitten, scruffy men. Both were bruised and bloody but alive. Two more were not. Daiki kicked the body so that it rolled face up and studied the dead man’s features. “It would seem the bandit has escaped me after all.”

Yet I couldn't get past the feeling that whoever had done this massacre had enjoyed it to a degree beyond anything I had ever seen before or ever hoped to see again.
In Memoriam

I felt it, or rather Gaumont’s body did, and with such force that it took me a moment to throw it off, a sudden desperation not to see what lay beneath that heavy drape of fabric. Yet I watched eagerly as the hands drew back the folds of grey material to reveal a granitic face, human in form, but so frozen that its wrinkles might have been carved from stone.

What horror could I feel, I who had counted more bizarre monstrosities among my friends?
Audio Fiction Podcast:
A Skirt of Many Colors

Podcast: Download (Duration: 37:45 — 25.93MB)

The pond was a bathing pool, long ago. You can still see pictures in stone, under the water and scum.