Spring has passed. Hot winds rip across the plains carrying on them the smell of steel and malice. We are coming back soon.
by Mo Martin
Breaking through the crust, bright rust orange and dried blood brown, the gears again begin to turn. As the lightning lances towards the collection antennae, he thinks about something he once heard. That in ancient English, the word Thunor was both Thunder and the God of Thunder. That there was no distinction between the deafening rumblings and the horrible might of the God Himself. The wild electricity flows sluggishly now that it is captured, inches into the prone form. A finger twitches, a fist clenches murderously; As the straps are broken as if they were cobwebs, he nods with satisfaction, and turns to watch the rain. After decades of careful adjusting and readjusting, after the years of fire and escape, after wire has been connected to wire, cog set to biting cog, now is the moment. Soon the blow will come, and as he crumples to the floor, his creation will give birth to itself.