The Dirt Eaters (2012)

Cover of book The Dirt Eaters
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Categories: Fiction
IF ONLY A FEW OF THE TALES WERE TRUE. BUT I’VE NEVER SEEN A SNOW CRICKET AND I’M BETTING NEITHER HAVE YOU.
    —LORE OF THE STORYTELLERS SMOKE FILLS HIS LUNGS. EVERYWHERE ROAN LOOKS, HOUSES ARE ON FI
...RE. WALKING IS AWKWARD. BENDING TO RUB HIS LEGS, HE SEES THEY’RE MADE OF CLAY. SO ARE HIS HANDS. IN FACT, HIS WHOLE BODY IS MADE OF IT.
    “ALANDRA!” HE CALLS. NO RESPONSE. ROAN’S VOICE FEELS THICK AND STRANGE IN HIS THROAT.
    “ALANDRA!” HE SHOUTS AGAIN, HIS VOICE BOOMING ALONG THE EMPTY ROAD. THE ROOF ON A HOUSE COLLAPSES, SENDING A SHOWER OF SPARKS INTO THE AIR. ROAN IS UNEASY IN HIS BIZARRE, UNWIELDY BODY. HE SITS DOWN TO REST, BARELY GLANCING AT THE HUGE WHITE STONE THAT SERVES AS HIS SEAT. THEN IT MOVES AND HE FALLS TO THE GROUND. THE STONE IS A GIGANTIC CRICKET THAT IS NOW CLAMBERING DOWN A ROUGH TRAIL THROUGH A THICKET SO DENSE THAT THE BRANCHES ETCH ROAN’S CLAY SKIN AS HE FOLLOWS IN PURSUIT.
    IN THE DISTANCE, SOMEONE IS SIGHING, AND THE CRICKET LEADS HIM TO THE SOURCE.
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The Dirt Eaters
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