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“You don’t even have a head” she said as she looked at the faceless, hardly there man.
“I’ll take yours then” he said as he reached out and without any recognisable sensation, she felt her head lift away from her shoulders and she fell backwards into something other than her bed.
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The otter looked around again. “There!” he announced as he fixed his gaze on something moving through the water. Something smaller than he that Jemima could not see. A small steam engine of a creature was hurtling towards the otter, and it was only when it had stopped and climbed onto the otter’s belly that Jemima could see it was a shrimp, or maybe actually a small lobster. “A shlobster” Jemima said to herself.
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She looked like she was made from the milk of the moon, although very few could imagine such a thing, and she sounded like an oracle when she spoke with wisdom split into fragments, hidden like jewels amongst her nonsensical being.
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Every night, for the past I don’t know how long, the noise was so loud that he could not sleep. So remedy after remedy, of mugwort and red poppies, he stopped drinking his potions and took to the streets at witching hour.