The Woman and the Mountain

The mountain would not watch her without replying, for such was too close to deceit. But before he turned his thoughts away from the valley and the woman standing in it, he saw once more her face, her eyes that had glittered moments ago with threatening tears. He felt the shapes of her feet, pressing into the soil. Then he looked instead to desolate ridges of stone and silent peaks, but the image of her remained.

The mountain was listening very closely, watching the wind blow faint tendrils of her hair, catching the warmth of her breath.
The Silver Khan

I was fascinated by the statues in the Khan’s gardens. They were all of men, clearly warriors, dressed in a strange armor. One night in the gardens I met an artist who sketched the statues in secret. He showed me his portfolio, which contained drawings of the face of a certain statue he had sketched night after night for years. “He is speaking,” the artist said. “See the movement of the lips and the line of the jaw. I do not know what he says, but he is forming words over the months and years.”

When the sun began to set in the west, one could hear the chink-chink of the great chain being wound as the palace settled slowly back toward the ground.
Audio Fiction Podcast:
Six Seeds

Podcast: Download (Duration: 28:42 — 19.71MB)

Dollies were the chore of my life: winding them, mending gears, and keeping good care of their pricier parts which pleasured the men.