Dancing began spontaneously, without the least amount of self-consciousness or concern for the surrounding, priceless antiques.
Several young people sitting on a couch stared at them with cool disdain. Soon they too would understand the principles of decay.
The bartender warned him. It was tricky getting the chemicals just right. Drink it too quickly, you’d die. Drink it too leisurely, you’d go mad.
Tucked far away in the attic was precisely the kind of thing he’d been warned about. It was delicious.
“It’s just settling”, he said. The loud groans and vociferous cursing in some ancient language from somewhere under the hotel didn’t stop until dawn.
Baskets of invertebrates were passed around the conference with quiet dignity.
Anthropocene flavored candy thrown from the stage delighted the audience.
The theory about the poisoning involved complex, secret interventions, mozzarella sticks and salmonella, and an unlikely visit from Poodles, the local TV children’s character.
All of the portraits in the attic had been transformed into sinister illuminations, part dysfunctional anxiety, part phylogenetic lyncanthropy.
The tourists were led out on leashes, their bibs flapping in the wind.
The last piece of pie was cut, infinitely, in half, until the universe ate itself.
After the convention they all developed the same symptoms, including the inability to see themselves in a mirror.
In the morning a note was slipped under the door informing him that it still wasn’t safe to come out.
When they finished the old, expensive bottle of wine they found a note at the bottom begging for help.
Two unexpected guests arrived during the rain storm wearing evening gowns and carrying framed portraits.