I looked at you
And the building began
A throne, a shell of perfect porcelain, a thousand twirling veils
I don’t understand why this is still a problem,” the ACS Director says, point-blank from behind the line of tiny crystal goblets filled with discreet, elegant sips of sherry. The Director’s flight, and that of every sherry-flight at the table, glistens in the muted light of the cabin. He stares on through the front windows of the yacht’s dining room into the night. The city is partially hidden on the horizon, and, up above it all, almost insignificant pin pricks of light lie scattered like fallen sequins.
They crawled from shallow darkness out of a crack in the sidewalk. They each stood as tall as a man and a half. Their bodies were covered in hazelnut fur and their nose tendrils writhed like skinned octopi. There were three of them, and one of me.
I fell backward onto my ass in the street, whimpering and whining, completely expecting to have my brain eaten out backward from my skull like a stew by these terrible, loathsome, horror-inspiring… Psychic Moles from Outer Space!
When I was in the seventh grade I found a scalpel after school. I think it belonged to my mom. There was nowhere else it could have come from. And this scalpel almost glowed. The black, black, veiny marble counter it was sitting on reflected a kind of halo around the silver knife, anything but subtle.
Looking once more over her shoulder, she blew out the candle, and darkness flooded the reading room. A wisp of smoke twisted underneath her nose: the dying breath of a once-eternal titan. On an average evening, she might have lingered a while there—gazing out through the cloudy window panes, examining the surrounding gardens and orchards, wondering what terrifying ghouls or odd creatures would pass through its mazes at midnight—but there wasn’t a moment to waste. Not tonight.