So Chimney, Seth, Sky-lasher, and the gals were even. Yeah: the whole finicky seven. Over the houses of their infidelity swept the rain of crayons. In those days not even they could.
Eventually Chimney moved back home to the sweet summer years of his youth. He built a den, sought solace on window sills, and pondered the crows.
Seth lost both shadows to the moon. He threw wine at his ankles and swam to the slippery side of the pool but nothing bent. She could not keep up.
The candles burned to the very bottom of the borrowed universe. Gals level their guns at the pitiful few. No one expected live ammunition. But what were they going to do? Use dead ammunition? All the dead ammunition had been taken to the vault of divinity by the emperor.
The thing with rainbows is you never know where they will sweep the ceiling. In the afternoon they have been observed in the corner of Second and Third. Four horses could not draw me if I had a pint of ale in my engine.
When Tuesdays were used for laundry the Earth held its breath. Now, with weekdays banned and winds chasing the sheep, no one is safe of rictus. Even the small knives.
When three fynxes turned to seven, Sky-lasher found a new path to the noodles of ineptitude. He whispered his sorrows and sang his husband’s red-toned meat cleaver. It worked until it didn’t and then it loafed.
Bread. Who could have known? Not the dwarves. Not the vampires. Not the mountain cactus.
ns 15.158.61.50da2
