The Wax Conspiracy

Geometric vegetables think fast and suddenly everything has changed

On the back of the hill, where the dead rot and fester for the maggots, a clearing opens a line of sight that isn't seen from behind the backs of those in helmets. Gathering quietly, they spy upon the other band with the red of lust on their fingertips.

Smooth from the rush of the winds, the grass keeps the scent down from the flow. Repeating fruits and vegetables long gone and now only their roots remain. Long lost to the savages of a barren land, even the sturdiest of shells break from the arid conditions.

Watching on and close to the still life before their eyes, a wayward feather drops ahead. Paying no clear witness to the situation for the depths of skulls they bury themselves, the certain giveaway escapes a trial.

One, too overcome by the pungent scent of thought and synapses snapping blank, ventures close and up the rush done path. Nobody notices the absensce. Especially not when the screams can only follow a dull snap of the neck.

Ethan Switch

Written on Wednesday, 10 May 2006

The Wax Conspiracy

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