#107 of Short Stories
A basilisk is eager to respond.
The basilisk let a stillness linger for a moment while smoke wisped up from the muzzle of the emptied shotgun before letting out a malevolent chuckle and reply with a voice like glass being made to flow, "This is why my wife doesn't answer the door anymore, you know."
The basilisk's gaze turned to the planet below as the last remnants of her suit abraded into atmosphere; her recollection of the approaching coastline's pizza was fond, and she hoped the lack of pants wouldn't interfere with buying a slice.
As the kobold's fingers rocked the noose back and forth her thoughts meandered through the absence of any remaining reasons for delay.
Though the weight of being a pallbearer had become familiar to the otter's hands, his heart carried each burden as though it were his first.