consciousness lent substance. Dreams given the illusion of flesh—your corporeal bodies were destroyed instantly within the ziggurat. From minute particles shall you be restored. ”
“There is a price.” Seneca whistled, shrill as a nail through the ear. “Endless suffering.”
Theoris Tooms’ spine contorted and split in a long vertical slash. A pair of wings unfurled and she shot from her perch upon titan-Arthur. She divided into three smaller, human-sized versions of her principal self. The trio ascended to the rim of the caldera with such speed, Mac was unable to avoid grasping talons that sank into his shoulders and pinned him flat to the dirt. He cried out in agony and she vomited her gory repast down his throat. It went likewise with Dred and Crabbe.
Shock and revulsion overcame Mac. He didn’t resist as his mother the vulture goddess bore him on high with two powerful beats of her wings. She flung him into the gaping maw of Atticus. Great-great-great Granddad champed his teeth on Mac’s thrashing body and ground his bones to meal.
PLACENTAL EXPULSION
Mid-August of 1956, The Anchorage Daily News reported that a beluga whale beached herself near the port of Whittier, Alaska. The cow whale had been dead several days and was a feast for carrion birds when a kayaker spotted her. The man approached the carcass and prodded it with a paddle. He was surprised that the edge of the paddle sank into deliquescing blubber. Gasses of decomposition reacted and the whale burst like a four thousand pound piñata, nearly drowning the fellow.
The paper omitted the rest of the story: four adolescent males were discovered within the remains—curled into the fetal position and comatose. Representatives of Sword Enterprises arrived at the hospital to whisk the mysterious patients away.
Subsequently, the reporter fell into a sizable inheritance and promptly quit journalism. The kayaker vanished while paddling in the sound and is presumed dead.
TOM FOOLERY
Three weeks at a private sanitarium in upstate New York wasn’t all bad if one happened to be a Tooms, or in Telemachus Crabbe’s case, a boon companion. Mac and Dred soon recovered sufficiently to swim in the pool, play squash, and devour three four star meals a day. Afternoons were for long strolls around the expansive property, birdwatching, and checking the fences for weak spots. Crabbe did not accompany them on these excursions—he’d lapsed into a state of melancholy. Sequestered in his chamber, Crabbe penned an extensive journal he referred to as preamble to his memoirs. The brothers tactfully avoided mentioning that Mr. Nail would likely confiscate any physical record of the events surrounding Ugruk Glacier.
Scant news penetrated the high walls and electrified fences of the sanitarium. News stories were concocted to explain various odd events; Uncle Nestor and Dr. Bravery apparently emerged from the depths of the glacier unscathed. Numerous Sword operatives and consultants were less fortunate. Scores of men perished in some kind of mining explosion. Page three fodder.
The brothers agreed to dispense with psychiatric modalities and comforting explanations for their night terrors, and day terrors. They clasped hands and swore to remember what happened within the ziggurat and after. They vowed not to dismiss the horrors of the astral beyond as mere hallucinations or temporary mental aberrations. Psychiatrists and Sword propagandists be damned. Neither parent nor uncle nor aunt had deigned to visit them in this wellness prison, so their relatives could be damned too.
Mental trauma notwithstanding, the boys had recovered physically; perhaps too well. The old scar on Dred’s knee healed without a trace. All of his scars (and Mountain Leopard Temple bestowed many) were gone. The chunk of NCY-93’s recording crystal lodged in Mac’s gut had melted away. His skin was smooth and unblemished as the day he’d first entered the world. It bothered him to feel almost
“There is a price.” Seneca whistled, shrill as a nail through the ear. “Endless suffering.”
Theoris Tooms’ spine contorted and split in a long vertical slash. A pair of wings unfurled and she shot from her perch upon titan-Arthur. She divided into three smaller, human-sized versions of her principal self. The trio ascended to the rim of the caldera with such speed, Mac was unable to avoid grasping talons that sank into his shoulders and pinned him flat to the dirt. He cried out in agony and she vomited her gory repast down his throat. It went likewise with Dred and Crabbe.
Shock and revulsion overcame Mac. He didn’t resist as his mother the vulture goddess bore him on high with two powerful beats of her wings. She flung him into the gaping maw of Atticus. Great-great-great Granddad champed his teeth on Mac’s thrashing body and ground his bones to meal.
PLACENTAL EXPULSION
Mid-August of 1956, The Anchorage Daily News reported that a beluga whale beached herself near the port of Whittier, Alaska. The cow whale had been dead several days and was a feast for carrion birds when a kayaker spotted her. The man approached the carcass and prodded it with a paddle. He was surprised that the edge of the paddle sank into deliquescing blubber. Gasses of decomposition reacted and the whale burst like a four thousand pound piñata, nearly drowning the fellow.
The paper omitted the rest of the story: four adolescent males were discovered within the remains—curled into the fetal position and comatose. Representatives of Sword Enterprises arrived at the hospital to whisk the mysterious patients away.
Subsequently, the reporter fell into a sizable inheritance and promptly quit journalism. The kayaker vanished while paddling in the sound and is presumed dead.
TOM FOOLERY
Three weeks at a private sanitarium in upstate New York wasn’t all bad if one happened to be a Tooms, or in Telemachus Crabbe’s case, a boon companion. Mac and Dred soon recovered sufficiently to swim in the pool, play squash, and devour three four star meals a day. Afternoons were for long strolls around the expansive property, birdwatching, and checking the fences for weak spots. Crabbe did not accompany them on these excursions—he’d lapsed into a state of melancholy. Sequestered in his chamber, Crabbe penned an extensive journal he referred to as preamble to his memoirs. The brothers tactfully avoided mentioning that Mr. Nail would likely confiscate any physical record of the events surrounding Ugruk Glacier.
Scant news penetrated the high walls and electrified fences of the sanitarium. News stories were concocted to explain various odd events; Uncle Nestor and Dr. Bravery apparently emerged from the depths of the glacier unscathed. Numerous Sword operatives and consultants were less fortunate. Scores of men perished in some kind of mining explosion. Page three fodder.
The brothers agreed to dispense with psychiatric modalities and comforting explanations for their night terrors, and day terrors. They clasped hands and swore to remember what happened within the ziggurat and after. They vowed not to dismiss the horrors of the astral beyond as mere hallucinations or temporary mental aberrations. Psychiatrists and Sword propagandists be damned. Neither parent nor uncle nor aunt had deigned to visit them in this wellness prison, so their relatives could be damned too.
Mental trauma notwithstanding, the boys had recovered physically; perhaps too well. The old scar on Dred’s knee healed without a trace. All of his scars (and Mountain Leopard Temple bestowed many) were gone. The chunk of NCY-93’s recording crystal lodged in Mac’s gut had melted away. His skin was smooth and unblemished as the day he’d first entered the world. It bothered him to feel almost
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