Penitents clogged the streets, marching solemnly under banners of Mild Discomfort, Vaguely Unsettled and Something Rashy.
Vines over the car. Vines over the barn. Squirming. The investigators walked carefully around the perimeter, lugging cans of gasoline.
Movements were prescribed. You must begin with the central inflection, you must finish with the thirteenth investigation.
Each platform was built up out of the muck using the bones of their ancestors. They would be closer to the sky, and they would be farther away from the hungry things.
The woolly creatures pulling the sled hesitated, putting their snouts up into the air and bellowing mournfully.
The stone relic was carved in the shape of nothing they could recognize, but it was obscene, it made them nauseous.
When the Sticks sent commands it sounded like a pile of rustling leaves or soil being turned over.
The cost of a new Reel was determined at auction. Bidders stood behind partitions showing only their teeth.
They were trapped. Cool, jazzy commands were piped into the elevator. Destroy. Eat. Reproduce. Disassemble.
A beverage made from the ground bones of memories, brewed in vats of expectation, dispensed with the blessings of heretical clergy.
A tincture was applied sparingly. The elders were summoned. He would have to go into the trees like all the others.
“When you’ve mastered the art of it everything else will seem like a slow motion car crash,” she said.
They lived for almost a million years, but they spent most of it napping. Their dreams grew planets.
Magnetic disorientation lead to stray missions deployed to ancient henges seeking dissident archaic tracks.
Parting the fur carefully, she revealed a complex tattoo, the long awaited instructions.