Allison/Marisola tugged him with her as she fell deliberately backwards, and he forward in her grip, into the wild vegetable empire. Like a loaf of bread in a slicing machine, Speegle felt himself segmented by the plants into pieces which each bore a portion of his substance, his dormant consciousness. The pieces went into hiding with Allison’s components, and Speegle experienced a temporary nothingness, not even acknowledging Oxbolt’s elegant brown shoe thrust into his sprawled, motionless form to flip him over, blank-eyed face upward to the canopy of endless green.
About the Author
Paul Di Filippo, a lifelong resident of Rhode Island, has published over thirty books. He lives in Providence with his partner of four decades, Deborah Newton.
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