The Bedside Book of Cryptids I was rehearsing what I would say. I had lined up some cocktail toothpicks. It was one of those days that makes us believe in Bigfoot, the sky more shadow than a maker of shadows. We all need a little downtime. To be that which we’ve marked our trails by. To speak like a Viking. To smolder. Most smoke and all spoken word is imaginary, anyhow. All but a few scraps of Viking bone are likewise, imagined. The more I invented what to say, the darker the sky grew. The fewer my options. The landscape and my desk and the best loved stories of lovers everywhere were laid out before me. The sharpened sticks love smuggles across the border all seemed highly unlikely. Glen Armstrong edi
Like the title says.