Faded Houses Green

Exact duplicates of shimmering lumber slumbered across the midnight sky, bereft of hazy clouds and lazy modifications that would destroy mere metals.

Morticia gave a glance and a nod–a nod and a glance–to the reigning days of early May, but the clever beast had already removed its feed bag and set off the proceedings with glue bombs in early August–the tentacles of justice notwithstanding–or notwithoutstanding, in the most legal technical terms allowed by the finest print. The fire print was another matter entirely, although the entirety had been grasped only by a fateful few, so it was more like a partial entirety of the fire print that the fateful few had grasped. Febrile strands of February could not decide what May or August had to do with their story–they being the heroes of said story–or so they had been told by their ancient mothers on rainy days in November.

Morticia said, “Don’t cry, for I have shimmering lumber slumbering enough for all the months of the Mortician calendar.”