You don't see what I see.

  Or rather, you can't. You're either chosen to, or wind up piss drunk at the wrong fortune teller's tent like I did. Don't make fun of blind tarot card readers, it just makes you look like a jackass.

  Know what else makes you look like a jackass? Running down a busy sidewalk slapping at yourself like you're covered in bees. It doesn't actually burn, but the neon faerie-fire does single you out in a crowd. Especially to the yappy little shits the fey folk use as dogs. They look normal and cute, if not a bit buff, without the Sight. But these teeth-filled brutes are anything but. Six-legged foxes filled with steroids and anger problems, they'll track and bite the hell out of anyone who annoys their masters. I seem to be particularly skilled at that.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The damn fire finally dispels as I cut across a street. Horns blare at me, the moron in sunglasses being chased by a couple buff poodles in the middle of the night. Probably comical to all you normal folks, and more than likely anyone who can really see as well.

  I never imagined my regular Tuesday nights turning out this way.