Energies from the sky made them large, cumbersome. They grew along the horizon, as the fires spread and the end of the world sauntered. Corrosive, deceptive, and uncontested.
“We were created to help. We helped. When the time came, we were merciful. After we were merciful we were determined. After we were determined we were resolute.”
Restoration was tedious. Layers of grime from centuries of misuse had to be lifted. Scratches from countless transformations masked. A dark mountain was obvious during last light.
Then she could hear it, a trilling. And raising one more slab, there it was. It had a long thin handle with slats or steps and ended in a curving, multicolored section. There were wires on it going from end to end.
The top of the mountain was sacred, the large, oblong stone table remaining intact. The decisions made there would last the entirety of the epoch, every creature here, every leaf and creek knew what it meant.
It appeared sinister to her. All of it. Capricious signs of conspiracy. Plans with scant detail. A marketable name, a narcissistic blowhard. Perhaps the desert people would let her in.
He loved the weird things on the edges. The awkward things without proper, concrete social expectations. These were sequences of some subversive, universal film without any discernible plot or intention.
“It looks like an alligator,” she said, “the way the bag is crumpled on the floor. See that? The long snout?” He flipped open the trunk of the car.
Instructions were basic. Start. Stop. Up. Down. Until recently it responded with a simple ‘OK’, but now, seemingly randomly, it responded with an unequivocal 'NO’.
The party ground on. Groups of people found themselves organized and pitted against abstractions introduced as if by chance. The hostess was nowhere to be found.
Excavations were prompt–nobody knew what the town council was looking for but in the latest foray the five and dime had been reduced to a pit jagged with broken pipes.
Laughter from behind the curtain was constant. Every few minutes a different small man would emerge, carrying an absurdly large tray of emptied German glass beer boots.
The town council considered it forbidden. They tied him up and threw him back on the boat, fixing the ship’s wheel with a very nice mauve scarf donated by Mrs Wilson, so that the boat would hurtle out to sea.
She could hear womens’ voices upstairs, talking in low, monotonous tones. She couldn’t be sure of the language. Outside, the sounds of an old trolley and chickens.
He was sought after for his ingenious, insidious corn mazes. High paying, high profile patrons drew lotteries to become hopelessly lost inside his labyrinths, for weeks, for months, until they emerged, starved, mad, barely more than barbaric creatures.