Manx imagines himself an assistant to one of those old gods, working in the stygian belly of a volcano.  The waves of heat that lap around him come not from the blast furnace rising above him, but from some divine forge.  Sparks fly nearby as the furnace is tapped, hot metal pouring in an incandescent fountain.

At the end of the week, on his day off, he takes the Metro up above the mistline to watch the zeppelins come in.  They drift in towards the docks, propellers beating lazily against the air as they come.  Each one that docks purges itself, regurgitating an endless tide of cargo and people to feed the beast.

After he returns home he dreams that he is flying, he is a zeppelin, his propellers beating against the air to take him away from the Spire.  No matter how hard his propellers turn, they never take him far enough.  He never has enough lift, and he falls, the green mist wrapping him in its choking embrace.


~ by Electro-mechanical Man on April 8, 2011.

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