The pustules bloomed early that season, and the farmer had to hire extra scythes for the cull.
Foggy morning, and fog is just a cloud that couldn’t hack it; it tortured the scythes and turned them around and fed them panic by the spoonful. When the biggest one started to cry, the dirt turned on them. Roots wrapped round their ankles: spiky fenchurch, and leafy whistleweed, and hairy alabaga.
And when the sun had finished rising, there was no sound except the sallybugs called the faithful to prayer. The throated ivy eyed the farmhouse and the barn.
“What did we take?”