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106 pages, Kindle Edition
First published November 30, 2011
Her knitting needles rested in a leather pouch in pairs, two matching sticks of wood, side by side like the delicate bones of a wrist wrapped in dried and ancient flesh.
Something had happened. A great and powerful thing had fallen out of alignment. And it had nothing to do with her generator.
"Why don't we come down here more often?" she asked. Marnes grunted. "Because it's a hundred flights down?"
She always chose carefully, for proper gauge was critical. Too small a needle, and the knitting would prove difficult, the resulting sweater too tight and constricting. Too large a needle, on the other hand, and it would create a garment full of large holes. The knitting would remain loose. One would be able to see right through it.
The clouds were low and ominous today. They loomed like worried parents over these smaller darting clouds of windswept soil, which tumbled like laughing children, twirling and spilling, following the dips and valleys as they flowed toward a great crease where two hills collided to become one. Here, Jahns watched as the puffs of dust splashed against a pair of dead bodies, the frolicking twins evaporating into ghosts, solid playful children returning once more to dreams and scattered mist.
A small tornado had formed at the base of the hill, the gathering dust whipped into an organized frenzy. It built some steam, this small wisp, as it swelled into a larger cone, spinning and spinning on a wavering tip like a child's top as it raced toward sensors that fairly sparkled in the wan rays of a clear sunrise.