“That’s probably enough for me, anyway,” Fassn says. He makes a great effort to still the chattering of his teeth: it fails. “I think Old Ajralan’s had his fill, anyway.”
“Concurred,” says Cang, who’s got the lip of his crowbar at the tile’s grout. He heaves and heaves and suddenly, with a crack, the tile gives way and comes loose. He hefts it, leaning far back to accommodate its weight. The tile’s nearly the size of his own torso, if not its density. “I believe I am ready to depart,” he says, a greedy glint in his eye that’s matched by the sparkling aspect of the tile.
puppet’s soft pulling
goes through the night
who holds my strings? they’re
pulled far too tight
(choke back my fright)
I can dance faster;
spare me a light?
At Abia’s warning, which like did anyone need at this point given their collective experiences, but she gives it anyway, and to her credit the gang is appropriately chilled, with the attendant raised-hair sensations creeping up arms and necks, and as those unsettling feelings reach their apex a low, round, bassy growl issues forth from somewhere deep within the manse, towards the throne room, and Fassn swallows a hard lump at the sound which sounds for all the world like the growl of an angry dragon.
a fallish tang, a telling breeze
nothing’s gonna last
the summer all too quickly turns
present into past
begin to dream of answers, re:
questions no one’s asked
discreetly, leaves are turning brown
falling rather fast
the Inca Roads I followed, once,
overgrown with grass