MoonlightYokai

Trom and Fletcher sat fishing on the bank of Indian Creek, in theory anyway. Four hours in and the sun had moved out of the thick line of pine, blasting solar rays down on their straw hats. This was their fifth outing. Flecher liked hanging with the freaky little green dude with a shell on his back. He was the consummate hillbilly: schrewed but trustworth and came with a supply of varying booze.

Flannel opened his eyes, blinking into a sticky, pale-blue sky. The sharp gravel underneath him poked through the back of his shirt and he noticed the front was damp - signs he’d been asleep for a while. He wondered how he’d slept at all and made his first attempt to sit up. But the first lurch twisted his insides like it was a rag being rung out and his brain spun around unnaturally in his skull.