I started this story a few months back but never finished. Using it for the DP cliffhanger challenge seems like the perfect opportunity to determine Francis’ fate.
Francis Blunderbun was a scatter-brained fellow with someplace tremendously important to be. Unfortunately enough, he hadn’t the slightest idea where he had scheduled his life presence away at that particular moment for he was far too distracted by the disturbing spectacle taking place directly before his very own two eyes. Nostalgia inexplicably resonated throughout his unpleasantly plump being as he considered the well-ripened homeless woman, her crusty membrane yellowing to a bruised brown, kneeling before him and appearing to be preoccupied by the violent process of wrestling with what resembled a partially-emaciated, fully-nude child. The sounds that this infantine creature was producing, however, bore no resemblance to a child’s shrill utterances; its jarringly throaty snarls seemed to bubble and burst with savagery—each eruption both horrifying and pitiful as the fiercely small figure writhed and choked on its own growling sputtering and spews.
Slow-minded as he was, for several moments Francis could manage nothing more than a slack-jawed gape, allowing a slow-moving stream of spittle to bare its slimy head and witness alongside (alonglip) Francis the startling events transpiring on the filthy, dusk lit sidewalk.
“Give it to me, give it to me, give IT TO ME!” the overripe woman screeched, her squawking emissions rising to a discordant crescendo of cacophonous misery for poor Francis’s blimpy ears.
But as sudden and startling a scene as it was, shaking Francis to his soft, portly core, the nauseating gurgles and growls produced by the scantily-clad creature with which the decaying woman tussled drew to sudden halt. The air grew still, charged and reeking of ozone. The violent vagabond and her bizarre skirmish were wrenched to a halt with jerking rapidity, her limbs splayed out and frozen like a grotesque, broken baby doll. Francis blinked and, almost completely unaware of himself, moaned lightly, releasing his saliva stream to the wind. His sizable paunch retracted in on itself, clenching tightly into the closest resemblance of a six-pack Francis had ever possessed. He was unable to enjoy the chiseled furrows of this newfound, fear-induced figure, however, because the child-that-was-not-a-child was looking directly at him. And there was something very wrong with its eyes. Too large, too black and–he realized with a shivering lurch–they were moving, squirming in constant motion–deeply conflicting with Francis’s previous (and preferred) understanding of a man’s eyeball as a rather stagnant, if somewhat gelatinous, pool of unanimated matter. Francis thought it looked like this creature had millipedes crawling in its eyes.
He attempted a slow, wobbling step back. And then another. He was neither a limber nor a graceful man and, partially paralyzed with panic, Francis could not manage a rearward pace swifter than that of a lethargic sea tortoise. However, the steady, conspicuous retreat came to a staggering halt when the demented creature began to snicker. The sound was thick and wet–oozing with something far more deplorable than amusement, something saccharine and rancid. Its smile was wider than it should have been, its maw gorged with jagged, broken teeth wreathed by thin, slippery lips that were dripping with something red which, rather than blood, reminded Francis of “Sunburnt Cyclops,” a crayon shade to which he was particularly partial. But this observation really didn’t comfort him in the slightest.
^Kind of how I envision Francis^