Gabby Truth always slept with the lights on. Wakefulness interrupted unconsciousness constantly. “What was that?” he might say randomly at any stray noise. “Who goes there?”
The picture of swinging teen lovers he use to love didn’t comfort him like before. He formerly slept directly with it, creepily enough. Now it just lays by his bed, unused.
Leaves are closing in, he frets. Bushes. Trumping his freedom at every card play. Unable to connect the dots any more. And what *was* his constellation sign? Fire? Water? The local astrologer had fled invading Earth and hadn’t returned, so no answers there. That leaves Air. Leaves… Air.
Gemini! he realizes excitedly, then distinctly hears knocks right afterwards. Three, then two, then one. Twin Brother Amos. But why this time of night? Oh, he thinks. They must have lost the house. Oh drat, oh darnit. The seed and the house. He’ll have to stay with me now. Oh well, at least the Earth’s gone (Ka-BLAM!). He pulls the covers away from him and gets up, being careful not to trip over the lovers’ painting. He also grazes psuedo-Mossman’s head for luck on his way to the door, per usual.
Sunklands 