Between The Covers : Conversations with Writers in Fiction, Nonfiction & Poetry cover image

Crafting with Ursula: Neil Gaiman on Word Magic & The Power of Telling Stories

Between The Covers : Conversations with Writers in Fiction, Nonfiction & Poetry

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The Dead, Dead, Then Its Call on Her Attention Was Imperative

There again the heavy soggy sound but it hadn't rained for weeks. The air close with a cloying Hidimildu or rot, sweet rot like very old Chinokiona are. There again the slow, squelching, sucking steps and the foul smell was stronger. Something was climbing her stairs coming closer to her door. As she heard the click of heel bones that had broken through the rotting flesh, she knew what it was. But it was dead, dead. She moaned. How could they have buried it in such a shallow grave and then just walked away abandoning it? And now where were they?

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