Michael B Chikondi
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Michael B Chikondi

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Michael B. Chikondi is not to be trusted, but the creature agrees to a meeting in its burrow. We enter with trepidation, given that the thing has no doorbell. As we crawl through the narrow tunnel gored out by its own teeth, judging by the texture, we hear what can only be described as a hacking cough. “Can we approach?” we call. “No soliciting.” the voice returns. “You sent for us; you told us to ask you questions. You know, for promotional reasons.” “Ask.” the dread voice responds. “Alright, who are you?” we try. “A creature of mist and shadow, half-mad, I used to go out, I did, and know those…humans. Not now, not since…the pen." ”You found a pen? That’s why you became a writer?” we ask, now terrified, trying to gauge how fast we can leave the burrow. The photographer has already left us, chewing off his own watch, caught on a tree root. “Yes, but now…I hunger…” We are not proud; we turn tail and flee, before it can leave its den. We aren’t paid enough to get a full bio. We can only pray someone buys its books, so that it never comes out on its own. Ed. What the hell is this? This isn’t what we requested. Just some nonsense and an artist's rendition of what one of my people saw before he contracted rabies. Eh, whatever. Plenty more writers in the sea.
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