We stood there, gathered round the summoning circle. We lit the candles, laid out our offerings. Soon, he’d be here. Fenrir. Devourer of the world. Cleanser of rot and folly.
We said the words slowly, having waited for this night long prophesied. The chant grew, our voices rising and falling in orgiastic crescendo.
Thunder cracked. Smoke billowed from the circle. We stood in reverent awe.
Suddenly, there came a sound of rending. A tearing, wet and rotten. We found ourselves covered in crimson. Our clothes, our hair, the floor. But this was wrong. We wanted blood. We got rose petals.
“Oops,” said a soft voice from smoke. There he floated, blushing.
“I’m sorry,” said Cupid. “I get gassy when I’m nervous.”
Coffee snob, whisky lover, smart ass. He writes primarily about hope, mental health, and the value of a single human life. Also a sucker for fart jokes. Twitter/Instagram: @joefuel