Glory-of-the-snow is abundant in the lower altitude regions
of Internment, studding the grass like amethysts in aged copper. The wind
speaks in whispers.
Meredith can just barely see the edge of Internment, which
she had suspected was not real until she relocated from the central cities.
The edge is tantalizing, addictive, pulling. There are legends of a long-ago place thousands of feet
below them, and the edge is shrouded in the same dreamlike wonder of the
mythologica. Yet Meredith would not dare go near it, there are troubles enough
in her household without accusations of being the next Jumper reaching her
parents.
Art by Shel Silverstein
Text by Lucie MacAulay
No comments:
Post a Comment