She stood atop the mountain staring down into the valley which she once knew to be hers. There microscopic figurines gathered in a circle weeping her name. She did not weep herself, but wished she could tell them of the blanket of peace that she was now wrapped in. But she could not descend this side of the mountain to tell them, she could only stare final glimpses onto the land below.

Her hair looked so tangible as it licked the edge of the moon. She approached me, quivering and shaking only slightly, feet hovering just above the ground. When she reached me she did not open her mouth yet somehow spoke two words:

Her veil down, silken, grey as the clouds above.

Her gown torn, covered in the dirt from below.

Her song a hymn of tragedy, of agonizing secrets.

I placed an egg on the tip of my roof. I hope someday soon it might hatch my aborted son.

Scarecrows and barns and hunchbacks. Scarecrows and barns and hunchbacks. Road 52 never changed. She had been driving for another three hours and nothing had changed. In fact, she was starting to get motion sickness from the constant rolling hills that the road followed. Her gas gauge was below half empty. She didn't care. She planned on driving until the last drop sputtered its dying breath out the exhaust pipe.

He moved upwards, determined, angered, but more assured than anything else that what he was doing was the right decision. The robots at work didn’t believe him when he mentioned his escape plan. He told them, on multiple occasions, that one day he would leave all of it behind and scale a mountain with nothing but the clothes on his back.

There stood the beast, pulsing between two realities, staring at me with eight tremulous, bloodshot eyes.