Cold Copper Tears is a fantasy novel by American writer Glen Cook, the third novel in his ongoing Garrett P.I. series. The series combines elements of mystery and fantasy as it follows the adventures of private investigator Garrett.

She was tall, blonde, and offering Garrett an irresistible fee to take a case that seemed open and shut. But in a town of elves and humans, thugs and swindlers—a place where magic and religion could prove an all-too potent mix—Garrett had learned to take a long, hard look before saying yes.

Garrett’s doubts are confirmed when the Grand Inquisitor comes looking for his help in the lovely lady’s wake. But even a hard-boiled detective like Garrett, with a Dead Man for an ally and the toughest half-elf in town guarding his back, can find that it’s too late to say no. Turns out Garrett’s been fingered as the latest sacrifice to a long-dead god—and his only chance to save his neck is to solve the case!

The power flowed into him, filling his lungs, spreading out in his blood like oxygen, and settling into the marrow of his bones. He felt himself smile in a way that he hadn't since he was a boy learning to cast his first spell. He had devoted decades to the study of magic, but now, now he was magic.

A glow lit the trees around him. He couldn't be sure if it was the setting sun, or if the glow came from his own skin. A beetle crawled on the ground nearby, seemingly unconcerned with what it had just witnessed, but yet its movements were in time with his heartbeat. A bird in the sky flapped its wings to the same rhythm.

A breeze plucked at his hair and clothes. He began to dance, slowly at first; he followed the wind, and the wind followed him. He moved faster, twirling and leaping, until even the fallen leaves were dancing around him. When he stopped, all was still.

He smiled again, and raised his arms to the sky. The first stars were visible. He watched them for a long time, and felt each twinkle as a tingle in his capillaries. By the time the sun rose, there was no trace of him.

- Story by JessaMar

#magicweek

Brothers and sisters, let me set the scene for a nightmarish creature so foul & obscene that penning this poem makes me want to scream, but the timing is perfect —- for it's Halloween. So, if we must, let's just start at the top of his oversized skull with his unruly mop of so-called hair the no-color of dust on a fissured scalp peeling & leaking out pus. His locks wind 'round horns, they're teeming with germs, and look more like the husks of a million dead worms. You've heard of bats in the belfry? Well, it's not just a phrase; small ones nest in his curls to hide from the sun's rays. One more word on his noggin, for this must be said: it's ten times the girth of a normal-sized head. And if I haven't yet made the case for distaste, let's move to the horror this thing calls a face.

Skin's the color of pumpkins dying a slow death or a failing sun breathing its very last breath. Brows like hairy slugs perched on orangey dough crown flat yellow eyes peeking out just below. Those beady orbs nestled in pouches and folds of flesh home to all sorts of fungus and molds. I suppose that's a nose next up on the list, but it's rotting & roaches peer out through the slits. Lips: scaly twin creatures all coated in muck, like two lizards who crawled in some mud and got stuck. Yes, his mouth is a marvel of nature's mistakes. He has not one tongue —- he has twelve made of snakes. Oh, that slithering nest-hole just can't resist striking at themselves as they writhe and they hiss. And it's best if we speak even less of his teeth, but they're green as the serpents who sleep underneath. Now, we've seen enough here, so we shall begin to speak of the mess under his bulbous chin.

And what appears next is not what you'd expect, but two giant flaps like his neck... ate his neck. His dermis is saggy, his guts are all stored in a carcass that's shaped like some mutated gourd. Yet he wears tailored suits, expensive and fine that cling to limbs clunky and elephantine. At the end of each arm is a claw like a crab. The horrid appendages pinch and they grab. He keeps them well sharpened and shined to a sheen, but they are so small they can hardly be seen. This would be almost a humorous twist, if only this beast didn't really exist. His mountainous legs suffer from the same flaws, capped off in feet as tiny as his claws. His whole frame reeks of sulfur. He's covered in grime. He leaves a lingering trail of malodorous slime. This journey, I know's been an unpleasant one. Dear reader, hang in there. We are almost done.

He lives in the depths of an ill-smelling bog, shrouded at all times in a venomous fog. Lit by giant mushrooms with an unearthly glow, a sick, swampy kingdom where twisted things grow. A pestilent monarch, he squats on his throne; sips gallons of blood from a goblet of bone. His subjects are legion, they flock to his side; all manner of ghouls that the heart can't abide. There's a pale hateful zombie, who's bedecked in flies, and humanoid shape that has fanged mouths for eyes. There's a three-headed harpy who screams at the sun and a man-eating frog that weighs nearly a ton. One could spend forever trying to describe the monsters that make up his hideous tribe. But our time draws to a close, my stalwart friends. Lock your doors, say your prayers —- for this is THE END. - By: YouInventedMe

Illustrations: apterus

Halloween when my daughter was little was always a fun time... The one I remember most was when she dressed as Queen Amidala from Star Wars. After the trick or treating was done we got a large pizza and headed back to the house to watch cheesy monster movies. #creatureweek