Cal-Buford could smell applecolors, and soon looking down on a solitary cabin halfway up Mt. Helicon. Smoke curled up from a rickety chimney, he knew they’d found source. Pegasus lightly touched down, Cal-Buford dismounted. He approached portal, stealthlike as an epileptic Hoplite in plate armor. The door jamb was rotsoft and silent when he tapped.

She was petite, calflength dark hair shone and moved like black leopard’s eyes. A breeze brought taste of fresh applesauce t’ nose and he’d liked demanding a stir her pot. Standing at the cast iron stove bareback, latflexed and pearhipped to C-B, she s(h)immer’d, “I’ve been expecting you.” She swiveled toward him, her smile arpeggiated breezeteased hair, as if twelve strings of lute. Sirenstrums raked C-B’s primal cortex as he folded his knees into the woodplank floor. Of heroic effort, he raised his head to speak.

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