“Seasons are all amuck,” Uncle Hobnor said. He turned, shielding his eyes as he looked down toward the inner city, its towers standing tall, reddish flags billowing about stone ledges. “Blasted season wrecker.”
“Why does he always keep it Dryburn, Uncle Hob-hob?”
“Why?” He snorted. “I’ll tell you, boy, it’s because of that damned sovereign’s heart.” In the distance, towering high above chipped marble houses, was Lord Banamp’s impervious demesne. “He cares only for this warm weather so his flowers can live forever.”
“I think I’m beginning to forget what snow’s actually like,” Perry said.
“Me too, boy,” his uncle said. “Which is why we’re going to get it back.”
Paul Abbamondi lives in the middle of the Pennsylvanian woods with his wife and two cats, reading, writing, and drawing. His short stories have appeared in Shimmer, Farrago’s Wainscot, Warrior Wisewoman 3, and Kaleidotrope, among other publications, and he enjoys all things weird.
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