Summer 1944 • Vol. VI No. 3 Fiction |

Landscape

A dark red sky and dark clouds, and below the black mountain the house in the almost-darkness, and the small black figure of the man hurrying away, small, very black and impenetrable; the dark coming down through the trees with coldness in it, and the little black man hurrying cringing away under the leafless branches. A sky somber and smoldering, bruised with the dark bloody sunset and mottled clouds; the trees black and motionless with stiff twigs and branches criss-crossed against the red: a dark cold breath of wind bringing the smell of night. The house is quiet and barren. The windows are lightless and blind. A mute chimney that blows no smoke. A narrow, spinsterly little house with peaked roof and gaunt sides glimmering faintly whitish through the dusk that sifts down like dark ashes. Cold earth brooding over its rocks and bones and the twinkling silver of a knife new buried. The earth is fibrous and crumbling and blind as an old crone and it has eaten the blood on th

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