And Blow Them at the Moon

A church grim like Magrat could taste death, scent it on the air, feel it in the marrow of her bones. Every mortal carried a little bit; death was always a possibility, from accident or disease. But sometimes the possibility grew stronger, closer, when a man stood at a fork in the road, then chose the path that led toward peril.

Magrat was right. This man stood at the heart of it.
Winecask Bellies and Owl Wings

So I made a horse. I made bones of iron and a mane of silk. Tendons of rubber from the king's caravans. I gave it a belly made from a wine vat. Around this I wrapped a skin of black and brown velvet--brindled bars such as no horse had, but that would make a cage to contain its life. I would ride this horse to freedom, away from my prison to the wastes where I’d fly with my sisters on owl wings.

Wind tore through the cave as I washed my silken face and hung it to dry.
Audio Fiction Podcast:
Eighth Eye

Podcast: Download (Duration: 28:07 — 19.31MB)
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Guess it's just you and me now, spider.