You have a ring on your door bell, and laid on your stoop is a brown papered parcel, tied with damp twine. You bring the package inside, noticing that the sky is tinged a weird green. You smell burning hair.
You pull the ends of the twine, which is warm and wet and reminds you of manhandling spaghetti. Inside are dozens of magazines, “The Sherman Evening Post”, and as you move the issues, the covers invoke a strange feeling. The air around you is green now, and the last thing you see are the covers of these stories.
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