They call it a desert, because it never rains here. And there is sand, I suppose. But it is sand only at a single remove from solid rock, lacking only pressure to return it to that state.
Tiny was a burly white Duck who knew no Fear. He feared not Winter’s cold, nor Night’s dark, nor Hunter’s boomstick. He wings were mighty, his plumage immaculate, and his heart pure.
Monsters under the bed? Ghosts in the attic? Spiders in your skull? We’ve all been there. If it’s your first time, fear not. Or, well, fear a little, but don’t go nuts over it all. You have options.
Writers, eh? Whatcha gonna do with ’em? Bung ’em in a hole, and fill it with dirt. Stuff their mouths with dirty socks to be safe. ‘Cause writers, well, they ain’t always talkers, but sometimes they are, and you can’t take any chances.
There was sand in my room again this morning. And a warm spot in the air, hovering three feet off the floor just in front of my door. There was sand, too, in the keyhole,
I see the constellations wheeling overhead: the Badger, the Boar, the Thing With Tentacles On Its Face. The not so very enigmatic stars, put in place by an ancient alien race, long dead, which wanted us to know.
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