Miranda Theis

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It reached out a hand—a claw. Its arm was bone, flesh hanging off in rotting ribbons, skin pulled so tight over a naked chest that ribs punctured through. But its face—Vines poured out of its mouth, eyes, ears, growing and writhing. Blood slipped between its lips as another vine broke out of its flesh and spooled toward the ground. Its feet were hooves. Andrew ran.
Don't Let the Forest In
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