02/02/2021
Floyd
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The mole in the bog
Human or mole. Mole had to think. Didn't matter for now, I suppose. It smelled of dim light, lamps of lavender mint, cognac, or chamomile, ambiguous, how could one know. Clouds of incense still wafted along, flickering in a slow, citrusy way, as if light bulbs were blinking through the dark corridors, in the mist, soft and ethereal. They wove around the waxy tuberous roots that flowed into muddy walls and the buttery little legs of the iris that the beaver had watered.
Trees pulsed balsamic beads like ambers among the mushrooms whose stringy slimy mycelium rolled through warm earth. Mole liked patchouli liquor if it rested long enough, like wine; down here in the damp corridors the conditions were good. Soft then the walls became towards the end, brownish mosses emerged, somewhat peaty mouldered damp bark, then the mole disappeared into the bog.
(With thanks to mermaid)
Trees pulsed balsamic beads like ambers among the mushrooms whose stringy slimy mycelium rolled through warm earth. Mole liked patchouli liquor if it rested long enough, like wine; down here in the damp corridors the conditions were good. Soft then the walls became towards the end, brownish mosses emerged, somewhat peaty mouldered damp bark, then the mole disappeared into the bog.
(With thanks to mermaid)
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Rachelg
