Sharing with The Sunday Muse #249. I. His guitar set things on fire. Not Eric--he could feel the heat but it never singed his skin. It never got as hot as this Texas afternoon that burned his neck and baked through his suit and made the road he'd been stalking seem like an asphalt river barely held in place by the gravel and weeds. He couldn't keep in the guitar in a case but the sun didn't seem to hurt it, even if Eric sometimes remembered it was goblin-made. That was an impossibility, though. He hadn't wanted to start a brushfire; walking in the sun in this suit was killing him. Sitting on the couch that had probably fallen from a truck seemed like a good idea. He'd discovered a folded sheet in his pocket, some rag full of tiny goblin advertisements, bluebonnet souls, cheap potions, gar-heart strings that prevented the dragon-gut fires...he closed his eyes. If he ignored the curious flames now reading over his shoulder, the growling couch, and the heat shimmer