In the six valleys of Water Bear XI the chernozyom angels would give life to dancing loam men to till the fields of the Flower War Gods during the festivals of the Balls and Sabers. Tourists and dignitaries from the plateaus of Water Bear XIII and the twin triplet cities of Fire Bear IV were regular visitors.
I’ll make no bones about it. Fools these mortals be, with their petty squabbles and their disregard for reason. Makes a shave-pate monk-saint wonder how all will end, after the last canticle is sung, the last candle mass is wrung.
We never did figure out what the No-eyes wanted. They just stood there, glowing redly in the mossy shadows of the Sporenoon Times.
“Lo, ane the fyfe heads of the red-monkey creatures of the low Earth shall fly anon ‘pon the wings of teh frogophantine beast known as heedra and herald the calming of the trumpets of doon!” Apocrypha of Saint Catheribeth the Twice-Written, Syntholon 49,6:33,2:34,4
The hood of many horns weighed upon the angel of many horns as it beheld the cabbage of creation in the middle of the tow-path of thorns above the pass of prurient passers-by.
In a city of angels, each angel forever bears a fragile, wonderful biome for ever with them in their suit. Safe, protected, pure and inviolate, never changed by admixture or dilution. The angels speak in pulses of high-frequency radio waves repeating to each other how terrific and tremendous and hugely complex their internal environments are.
Dakota Pulpdike went to Saint Nick and said, “I’d like to fly like a dragon, sir, that’d make me happy as a fir!”