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 |   Enga mellom fjella: where from across the meadow, poems sing from mountains and molehills. |
| She had pricked her thumb on a thorn, her knees now sore from scooting on the brick path. Tin Man offered to help her up. Dotty shook her head and held the drooping flowers in her clenched fist. Poppies. Bah. The pine-clad mountains loomed over her. The thick pall of twilight threatened overhead. The slick gumbo and gloom fit her mood like a glove. The ever-present warning sign, "Beware of Wolves" with its ever-dripping graffiti of red fangs seemed almost comforting... almost. We pray that we may evermore dwell in... I'm not in Kansas anymore. They were rehearsing for a centuries-old play that had been recently discovered. Flat plains? Whirling winds? Witches? What was a witch? "Witches are..." Stop reading my thoughts. Tin Man was her pet robot, ever-present, all-knowing, totally-annoying. "We could go see the Wizard if you like." And dumber than a straw-filled whatever-they-called it. "We can go see Whizz-Kid tomorrow." She shouted. "Today we have to rehearse our lines." Tin Man grinned and started to sing in a flute-like falsetto. "Follow the golden brick road." Dotty groaned. There's no place like Rome. There's no place like Rome. There's no place like Rome. |
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