The Gift of Volkeye by Marque Strickland, Wrinklegus PoisonTongue Page A

with excitement as Jay prepared to take off. Suddenly, the winged beast leapt vertically and sent them skyrocketing one hundred feet into the air.
    “Whhhhooooooooooaaaaaaaaah!”
    When Jalum reached his peak, he let himself fall freely. Khyeryn squealed like a child on a ride at one of the amusement parks below. After descending a couple of thousand feet or so beneath the castle, Jalum extended his wings and soared.
    Khyeryn was panting with exhilaration, having kept his eyes open through every second of the drop. Jalum looked back over his wing and squawked lightly at him, snapping Khyeryn out of his daze.
    “Jay, head for Bahzee’s,” he said, as he relaxed to enjoy the rest of the ride.

VI
Poisoned Tea, A Wet Bed, and Sing’s Escape from an Erect Penis
     
    1
    A dwarf-sized boy, fourteen-winters-old, sat staring into a clear glass tank and angrily slammed his fist upon the table as he watched the two creatures within run about in a nonsensical fashion. They were black and lizard-like, several inches in length with large eyes that spun slowly round due to their state.
    In frenzy, the creatures clawed at one another and continuously ran into the glass walls. They were doing any and everything except what the boy wanted. Normally, a failed experiment like this would have been quite amusing to him, but on this particular day he had something special in mind, and his failure would only put a damper on his plans.
    “Bloody hell, why won’t you two die? Blast!”
    In a swearing fit, the boy stormed about his quarters in the cottage. Had his parents been home, he’d have received a severe tongue lashing for his antics, for they did not tolerate his potty mouth. They’d gone out for the day, but they were soon due back. Knowing he was pressed for time frustrated him all the more, for if this didn’t work, he’d have to abandon his plan for another day.
    He left his room and ran outside through an incessant spell of hard, freezing rain, which had begun that morning. Drenched, he made his way to the shed and began digging through his father’s farming supplies.
    The boy dug in a box and tossed aside any item he hadn’t yet tested, going straight for the chemicals he was used to. Until today, he’d only used his newest creation on plants and bugs, and therefore thought that he might need a much stronger dose for animals or the like.
    He’d begun testing a year ago and started with the simplest of elements. Rat poison. That was the base for his homemade killer. It was this, combined with many different insecticide pellets, ground to a fine powder, and then finally doused with moderate amounts of hydrogen cyanide, that became the most ambitious and lethal accomplishment of anyone his age.
    Though he was just a boy, he’d been self-aware for some time now. He enjoyed reading everything he could on scientific matters and discovered he could borrow the ideas of another and easily apply them to his own projects with remarkable results. He was not an innovator by any means, but an exceptional imitator .
    Along with the disposable syringes he kept on his person at all times (stolen property of his father’s), the boy now had all he needed and meant to get back to the attic—the place that his folks assumed was merely a spot in which he liked to read. It was, but aside from that small detail, it was also a miniature laboratory where he tested his chemicals on the house vermin and other small creatures. (The lizards now in his bedroom tank had been up here, being injected, not long ago.)
    The boy stuffed the items in a burlap sack and turned to exit the shed only to face a most unpleasant surprise.
    “What you doing, boy?” the man said with accusatory eyes.
    “Nothing, Papa…just digging around for a few things.”
    “Bloody hell! What you be needin’ with all me chemicals, boy? I knew I wasn’t crazy…thought me supplies was running short quicker than necessary!”
    The boy’s father leered at him and snatched the