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Circe

They’re building the Sinner King, all forty feet of him, his skeleton a stark spread-eagle of quiescent neon.  It’s hot work, but if they wanted to be cool, they wouldn’t be wearing sackcloth on the playa.

It does get cold when the sun goes down, though.  Circe shivers as she takes her place in the concentric ranks, shivers more as they all douse themselves in grain spirit.  They say if you can hold really still the Sinner King won’t see you, the sackcloth will consume itself and leave you unharmed.

The neon lights.  Circe raises her match to the desert wind.

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