lives no more or less likely to be remarkable in any other way. They can however be distinguished by a special birthmark, a sooty smudge that appears persistently on the skin’s surface at a particular spot, different for each. The smudge can be marred by rubbing, or scrubbed entirely away; it will return in roughly the same place. The mark actually consists of soot, graphite, charcoal, lead, minates, or combinations of these.
In reference to the mark, which resembles a smoke-stain, the others are colloquially referred to by the nickname, “Burn.” This is not a generic name; they are not collectively known as Burns. If someone exhibits the mark, one is free to say to him or her, with a jaunty air, Well Burn, how’s the family? Or, casually, Come back later, Burn.
The whispering statue teacher, ivy blanketing the ruined church is its nervous system ... the blindfolded upraised face the light on the face ... cheek-to-cheek with its marble slab, the cadaver murmurs, It is their statues who rule us.
The teachers! False modets! They’ve come, creeping out of the ground and street, curling around the edges of the houses like scraps of mist ... but they are hard as stone, their livid, unblinking eyes burn with white rage, the earth trembles beneath their silent feet, gelatinous smoke creeps from their lips, parted in a grimace like the fixed spasm of some feebly-remembered anguish. When they become aware of the presence of a child of school age, their smooth, gliding motion abruptly changes, and they advance in galvanic vibrations, snaking out their arms and legs in rigid angular ways.
Citizens of Votu defend their homes and places of work by decking them out in enchanted awnings, made by the carpet weavers. Votu is a city of vividly-patterned awnings; the buildings all look half-asleep unless a breeze is stirring. Then, they’re like the lover who wakes up next to you, fluttering eyelashes and inviting you to pick up where you left off, unless the breeze becomes a strong wind. Then, they’re like bedraggled, unshorn sheep turning their flanks to the elements and the wiser folks will roll or crank them in again. Awning up, shutters closed, an old man surprised by sleep, his eyebrows still raised.
The magic land: where corpses mill ... a corpse strolls by, whistling ... sounds are sometimes visible, the shape and color of his words ... don’t listen to that melody if you want to stay sane ...
Studious in the magic land the brain grows heavy with powers, enacting the conflict in itself, the crash of desires in a hermetic ghetto, on the brink of the land of no memory, inhabited by neither rich nor poor but those who are sealed into a dream of magic and the supernatural, by turns tormented and enraptured over correspondences and omens, who can see the sun shine at night and the moon by day, whose torches candles and fireplaces shed darkness in ghoulish old houses, where the corners, attics, closets and basements blaze with light.
Like it?
“Like it, Burn?”
deKlend:
The Madrasa Dabeb Chafif is still a family business, run by Mrs. Manoah’s son Julien. The next morning, deKlend watches from the window of the teacher’s lounge as Julien’s smoking helicopter hacks up from behind the hemlocks and lands on a ledge thrust out into the void.
Oh, they’re back early , (the music director groans)
deKlend spends much of the day delivering messages, going to and fro and up and down among the rainstreaked concrete buildings, which are scarcely less run down than the teachers. There is a canal of caustic-looking black water and a loading dock where barrels of fresh explanations are unloaded on a regular schedule. Manoah is able to procure them through his black market connections.
deKlend finds Manoah interesting, and would cultivate his acquaintance if he didn’t refuse all unnecessary conversation with anyone he regards as a social inferior: a narrow circle, extending only to his immediate family. To the best of
In reference to the mark, which resembles a smoke-stain, the others are colloquially referred to by the nickname, “Burn.” This is not a generic name; they are not collectively known as Burns. If someone exhibits the mark, one is free to say to him or her, with a jaunty air, Well Burn, how’s the family? Or, casually, Come back later, Burn.
The whispering statue teacher, ivy blanketing the ruined church is its nervous system ... the blindfolded upraised face the light on the face ... cheek-to-cheek with its marble slab, the cadaver murmurs, It is their statues who rule us.
The teachers! False modets! They’ve come, creeping out of the ground and street, curling around the edges of the houses like scraps of mist ... but they are hard as stone, their livid, unblinking eyes burn with white rage, the earth trembles beneath their silent feet, gelatinous smoke creeps from their lips, parted in a grimace like the fixed spasm of some feebly-remembered anguish. When they become aware of the presence of a child of school age, their smooth, gliding motion abruptly changes, and they advance in galvanic vibrations, snaking out their arms and legs in rigid angular ways.
Citizens of Votu defend their homes and places of work by decking them out in enchanted awnings, made by the carpet weavers. Votu is a city of vividly-patterned awnings; the buildings all look half-asleep unless a breeze is stirring. Then, they’re like the lover who wakes up next to you, fluttering eyelashes and inviting you to pick up where you left off, unless the breeze becomes a strong wind. Then, they’re like bedraggled, unshorn sheep turning their flanks to the elements and the wiser folks will roll or crank them in again. Awning up, shutters closed, an old man surprised by sleep, his eyebrows still raised.
The magic land: where corpses mill ... a corpse strolls by, whistling ... sounds are sometimes visible, the shape and color of his words ... don’t listen to that melody if you want to stay sane ...
Studious in the magic land the brain grows heavy with powers, enacting the conflict in itself, the crash of desires in a hermetic ghetto, on the brink of the land of no memory, inhabited by neither rich nor poor but those who are sealed into a dream of magic and the supernatural, by turns tormented and enraptured over correspondences and omens, who can see the sun shine at night and the moon by day, whose torches candles and fireplaces shed darkness in ghoulish old houses, where the corners, attics, closets and basements blaze with light.
Like it?
“Like it, Burn?”
deKlend:
The Madrasa Dabeb Chafif is still a family business, run by Mrs. Manoah’s son Julien. The next morning, deKlend watches from the window of the teacher’s lounge as Julien’s smoking helicopter hacks up from behind the hemlocks and lands on a ledge thrust out into the void.
Oh, they’re back early , (the music director groans)
deKlend spends much of the day delivering messages, going to and fro and up and down among the rainstreaked concrete buildings, which are scarcely less run down than the teachers. There is a canal of caustic-looking black water and a loading dock where barrels of fresh explanations are unloaded on a regular schedule. Manoah is able to procure them through his black market connections.
deKlend finds Manoah interesting, and would cultivate his acquaintance if he didn’t refuse all unnecessary conversation with anyone he regards as a social inferior: a narrow circle, extending only to his immediate family. To the best of
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