Wednesday, 4 July 2012

New(ish) fiction at Ink, Sweat and Tears

"There is a form of divination in the ancient Lowlands called taghairm. The mystic swaddles himself in the warm, smoking hide of a freshly slain ox, he squats behind the waterfall, and he waits for the futurity to arrive. The breeze of the water past his face as he closes his eyes and steams with the fresh blood of the ox—this is almost like the smell of the moon when it’s full; it is close."

A story about the smell of the moon.

I promise more real words soon but for now the sun is setting at the balcony and I have fresh basil and the torn edges of an old hangover to rub against my cheek.

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