spansules.
These were the same people who worried that I might grow up to become a
Miss Nymphy Nymphoheimer.
At present, Archer, Leonard, and I trail after Babette and Patterson,
navigating a switchback route through hummocks of discarded toe- and fingernail
parings, between sloughing gray hillocks heaped with every thin crescent of
nail ever trimmed. Some nail fragments are painted pink or red or blue. As we
tread along the narrow canyons, thin rivulets of loose fingernails trickle
down. Trickling toenails threaten to become full-fledged avalanches which could
bury us alive (alive?) in their talus of prickly keratin. Overhead arches the
flaming orange sky, and down branching canyons, dwarfed in the distance we can
glimpse communities of cages where our fellow doomed souls sit in permanent
soiled desolation.
As we meander, Leonard continues to recite the names of demons we might
encounter: Mevet, the Judaic demon of death; Lilith, who steals children;
Reshev, the plague demon; Azazel, demon of deserts; Astaroth... Robert
Mapplethorpe... Lucifer... Behemoth....
Ahead of us, Patterson and Babette stroll up a gentle slope, topping a
rise which blocks the view beyond. Reaching the crest, the two of them stop.
Even from behind we can see Babette's body stiffen. In reaction to what she now
sees in the distance, both her hands come up to cover her face, her fingers
cupped over her eyes. Babette bends slightly from the waist, bracing her hands
against her thighs, and turns away from the view, stretching her neck as if
about to retch. Patterson turns to see us, jerking his head for us to hurry and
catch up. To witness some new atrocity just over this next horizon.
Archer and Leonard and I trudge along, mounting the slope of nail
parings, soft under each labored step, like snow or loose sand, climbing until
we stand alongside Patterson and Babette, at the edge of a steep cliff. Half a
step ahead of us, the land drops away, and below us boils a sea of insects
which stretches to the horizon... beetles, centipedes, fire ants, earwigs,
wasps, spiders, grubs, locusts, and what-all churning constantly, a shifting
soft quicksand composed of pincers, feelers, segmented legs, stingers, shells,
and teeth, darkly iridescent, largely black but speckled with hornet yellows
and bright grasshopper greens. Their constant clicking and rustling generates a
din not unlike the crashing surf of a briny ocean on earth.
"Cool, huh?" says Patterson, waving his football helmet in
one hand as if to direct our attention over this morass of seething, undulating
horrors. He says, "Check it out... the Sea of Insects."
Gazing down into the surging swells and rolling troughs of clamoring
bugs, Leonard sneers in righteous disgust, saying, "Spiders are not
insects."
Not to belabor the point, but counterfeit luxury goods truly represent
a false economy. To witness, Babette's plastic shoes look to be falling apart,
the straps severed and the soles loose and flapping—subjecting her lithe feet
to fingernail and busted-glass abrasions—while my own sturdy Bass Weejun
loafers barely appear to be broken in by our lengthy underworld trek.
As we gaze out across the vast squirming, humming pudding of insect
life, a scream approaches us from behind. There, sprinting between the hills of
nail parings, panting and running, comes a bearded figure dressed in the toga
of a Roman senator. Craning his neck to glance backward Over his shoulder, the
man races toward us, screaming the word Psezpolnica. Screaming,
"Psezpolnica!"
At the cliff's edge, teetering near where we stand, the lunatic toga
man points a quaking finger in the direction he's come. Beseeching us with his
wide-open eyes, he screams, Psezpolnica!" and dives, plummeting, flailing,
falling to vanish beneath the seething surface of bug life. Once, twice, three
times the toga man comes up for air; his mouth is choked with beetles. Crickets
and spiders sting and strip t he flesh from his twitching arms. Earwigs
These were the same people who worried that I might grow up to become a
Miss Nymphy Nymphoheimer.
At present, Archer, Leonard, and I trail after Babette and Patterson,
navigating a switchback route through hummocks of discarded toe- and fingernail
parings, between sloughing gray hillocks heaped with every thin crescent of
nail ever trimmed. Some nail fragments are painted pink or red or blue. As we
tread along the narrow canyons, thin rivulets of loose fingernails trickle
down. Trickling toenails threaten to become full-fledged avalanches which could
bury us alive (alive?) in their talus of prickly keratin. Overhead arches the
flaming orange sky, and down branching canyons, dwarfed in the distance we can
glimpse communities of cages where our fellow doomed souls sit in permanent
soiled desolation.
As we meander, Leonard continues to recite the names of demons we might
encounter: Mevet, the Judaic demon of death; Lilith, who steals children;
Reshev, the plague demon; Azazel, demon of deserts; Astaroth... Robert
Mapplethorpe... Lucifer... Behemoth....
Ahead of us, Patterson and Babette stroll up a gentle slope, topping a
rise which blocks the view beyond. Reaching the crest, the two of them stop.
Even from behind we can see Babette's body stiffen. In reaction to what she now
sees in the distance, both her hands come up to cover her face, her fingers
cupped over her eyes. Babette bends slightly from the waist, bracing her hands
against her thighs, and turns away from the view, stretching her neck as if
about to retch. Patterson turns to see us, jerking his head for us to hurry and
catch up. To witness some new atrocity just over this next horizon.
Archer and Leonard and I trudge along, mounting the slope of nail
parings, soft under each labored step, like snow or loose sand, climbing until
we stand alongside Patterson and Babette, at the edge of a steep cliff. Half a
step ahead of us, the land drops away, and below us boils a sea of insects
which stretches to the horizon... beetles, centipedes, fire ants, earwigs,
wasps, spiders, grubs, locusts, and what-all churning constantly, a shifting
soft quicksand composed of pincers, feelers, segmented legs, stingers, shells,
and teeth, darkly iridescent, largely black but speckled with hornet yellows
and bright grasshopper greens. Their constant clicking and rustling generates a
din not unlike the crashing surf of a briny ocean on earth.
"Cool, huh?" says Patterson, waving his football helmet in
one hand as if to direct our attention over this morass of seething, undulating
horrors. He says, "Check it out... the Sea of Insects."
Gazing down into the surging swells and rolling troughs of clamoring
bugs, Leonard sneers in righteous disgust, saying, "Spiders are not
insects."
Not to belabor the point, but counterfeit luxury goods truly represent
a false economy. To witness, Babette's plastic shoes look to be falling apart,
the straps severed and the soles loose and flapping—subjecting her lithe feet
to fingernail and busted-glass abrasions—while my own sturdy Bass Weejun
loafers barely appear to be broken in by our lengthy underworld trek.
As we gaze out across the vast squirming, humming pudding of insect
life, a scream approaches us from behind. There, sprinting between the hills of
nail parings, panting and running, comes a bearded figure dressed in the toga
of a Roman senator. Craning his neck to glance backward Over his shoulder, the
man races toward us, screaming the word Psezpolnica. Screaming,
"Psezpolnica!"
At the cliff's edge, teetering near where we stand, the lunatic toga
man points a quaking finger in the direction he's come. Beseeching us with his
wide-open eyes, he screams, Psezpolnica!" and dives, plummeting, flailing,
falling to vanish beneath the seething surface of bug life. Once, twice, three
times the toga man comes up for air; his mouth is choked with beetles. Crickets
and spiders sting and strip t he flesh from his twitching arms. Earwigs
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