Before the concert, we steal the master’s head.
The necropolis is a dark forest of concrete mushrooms in the blue Antarctic night. We huddle inside the utility fog bubble attached to the steep southern wall of the nunatak, the ice valley.
The cat washes itself with a pink tongue. It reeks of infinite confidence.
“Get ready,” I tell it. “We don’t have all night.”
« Older Elmo cupcakes, Poo/halloween cupcakes, monkey cupc... | Northumbrian Storyteller, No-a... Newer »
This thread has been archived and is closed to new comments
Buy a Shirt