And the clocks stopped at seven minutes before the hour across the world when all humanity suddenly vaporized, leaving the wounded, but grateful, planet in the nurturing fronds of the conquering triffids.
My friend Ragwen lives in a small grotto next to the tiny stream running under that green grass there. Ragwen is a a meadow sprite I’ve known for years. She tells great stories about her adventures in other dimensions.
The Pooka MacPhellimey, a member of the devil class, sat in his hut in the middle of a firwood meditating on the nature of the numerals and segregating in his mind the odd ones from the even. Sure, ’tis just a taste of the prose poetry in At Swim-Two-Birds
Like a thread of chewing gum a child stretches in idle play from her mouth, the state road picked its dainty way through the hills. That proud sentence is from Summer in Williamsburg.