“It’s important to keep the outside of the vats moist,” he said, “otherwise the phenomenon will collapse.”
Sunlight illuminated the floor of the river, but all he could hear was metal.
Old Man told us everything, one story for each hair of his beard, one tale for each brick in the house he built with his very own hands.
Shipments from over the mountain always arrived in crates made of leather, with little rusty zippers on each side.
The leaves rustled into a shape, first a murder, then a demigod, then her.
The old, collapsing farmhouse had spawned huge clapboard nests. Delicious for the ants.
Wind and rain inundated the remote cabin. They whittled articulated legs from pine. In the morning they would try to get off the mountain.
The Rotten Log was on the same ley line as the Inverse Stone, the same as the Spider Hollow. Tinmouth Castle, however, had recently disappeared altogether.
A pile of cubes, covered in moss, leftovers from the ancient builders, unmovable and eternal.
The fertility of the remote zone was obscene–robotic expeditions returned fully sprouted, flowering and heavily laden.
Although ascending the mountain was simple, descending required the intervention of a haruspex, who spread the entrails out along the path for collective inspection.
Two old men in absurdly large hats squatted tentatively next to the figure of a sleeping, naked girl. “What can it mean?” they asked.
The hungry animal god crouched behind the hedges, waiting for the children. It was a fortuitous time, the planets were in alignment.
The bleached white skin was distracting, but the supersonic rustle of ceremonial robes was hallucinatory.
Stones were stacked in a manner that suggested some meaning. “It’s a trap,” he said, “to get us to linger.”