An incinerating moth caught in the exhaust plume glimpsed the ink black jet dancing demonically against the cigarette sky. Even as the burnt flakes of the moth eviscerated into the jet stream, the perpetrator continued to press a cold hard body against the smoky air. Far, far below its belly, a wide wave of foam crushed over a sugary shore.
The dark dragon roared over more waters, the sky around it transforming from stained tobacco yellow to the color purple. Running along the inside of the dragon’s purple painted spine was an echelon of people, something like cyclists seen from above in a cycling race, except they had nothing of the organic nature of the peloton. The holidaymakers had placed themselves with machine like precision in columns and rows, like numbers on a spreadsheet. Most of these numbers were asleep. Some were reading, but in Hugh’s case, writing.
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