She required more than a minute to determine not only the source of the sounds but her very location: above her head were not the familiar rotting grains of wood in her sleeping cranny at the log, a homey sight her eyes had seen every waking evening of her life, but instead the smooth wooden-toothed edges of gears and wheels, like a magnified daymare of the interior of some creature’s gullet and gizzard, grinding away at her who had been swallowed whole. She tried to stifle a cry, the choked squeak escaping without disturbing the deep sleep of her companion, who, she suddenly remembered, was deaf. She stared at him, waved both sniffwhips over him to perceive the depth of his slumberscent, and determined that he was indeed far away in dreamland. There was a smile at the edges of his handsome mouth. But the sounds he was making! He was snoring. She had heard her late father snore, particularly during days after he had consumed too much Chism’s Dew, but nothing like this, the snores of a feller who could not hear himself snore!
What do You think about The Cockroaches Of Stay More?
