Little Horns

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Auntie glanced over at the little boy, who was still a little wobbly and learning to walk.

His grandma gave a slightly rueful smile, brushing gently at his forehead.

There were faint bruises there from him bumping against things. It had alarmed auntie.

“He’s learning to coordinate,” his grandma said, “the bruises will go away,” Then as an afterthought, she laughed ruefully, noting aloud the faint lavender blotch placements reminded her of horns.

Took the words out of my mouth, auntie thought, but this version of Hellboy was so much more adorable (and being the little Libra he was, the dimples would eventually show up making him even more dangerous).

“He’s stubborn…and curious. Like his old man,” new dad spoke with pride.

Auntie arched an eyebrow in new dad’s direction, but spoke to the little one with affection,  “be careful, munchkin. Don’t lose anything you can’t grow back.”

The little toddler continued to wander around the rectangular coffee table, circling it. The wood coasters were for thumping on the table or knocking off, he had decided.

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