Driving back in the cold from Detroit several smokestacks were belching out great steam clouds. Brick and metal constructions, monuments to the new gods of industry.
Smokestacks pouring out burnt offerings to new gods. What kind of gods would be accepting of this kind of ambrosia? What dark force are we building? What elder gods would devour such offerings?
Somewhat confusing thoughts, but I'm really tired. Maybe I can clarify it tomorrow.
4 comments:
Dude, you have the start of at least a short story.
I liked it.
The smog was ambrosia to the higher planes. Or was it the sacrifice of oxygen to the lower planes?
Only you know.
No clarification needed. Good stuff. Truth and fiction, too.
On a much less poetic note, I grew up in Detroit -- and when traveling through downtown on one of the expressways, there was a certain stretch of raised highway that we would affectionately call, "The Stinky Bridge."
Years later, I was visiting my old hometown, and sure enough, the stinky bridge is still there. Stinking it's unique stink. It's much like the fine cheese of industrial waste. A pungent, organic smell. Quite stinky, nonetheless. I don't miss it.
Anon, that's why I give these away. I can see three story threads that I could write, but I don't have the time for it, so I give away the idea so someone can write it. The way I was envisioning it was ambrosia to the higher planes.
Greeny, that's what I go for, fill my stories with verisimilitude so that when I start lying to the reader, they go along with it.
Shawn, if that bridge was on the I-75, I think it's exactly the same place where I got this idea. There's a chemical plant there, one stack next to the highway that was gouting steam and smoke. It was a metal tube with a catwalk around it and a flat plate on top like an ornate column carved with snakes or dragons with smoking brazier at the top, discolored by the accumulated offal of centuries.
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