Behind the waterfall is a cave, a cave where stalactites drip water with the steady sound of what would be a leaky faucet—if you could hear it over the waterfall. There’s an office in the cave. You see, trolls need dark placed during the day—even trolls who just happen to eat hapless wayfarers who just happen to send literary fiction to a fantasy editor. Though to an editor like this, fantasy is literary fiction.
The Maid of the Mist sails through the clouds, which are just as drenchingly wet as Niagara. Up here you can see nothing but grayness, like when you’re drowning in a bathtub and you’re so far gone you can’t see any more.
The ocean sky was as gray as the ocean water; it looked like you lived in a huge bowl. Like when you trap a cockroach under one because you can’t stomp on it because it’s on the table and not the floor.
The floor was covered with water; the sink was overflowing; the garbage disposal was grinding merrily away at a 20-year-old tinful of coffee, tin and all. At least it wasn’t a hand; then there would be blood leaking just as much as the faucet was.
Ambulances and fire trucks. Gushing water from the hoses.
When the rain made a pond out of the field and the sunset reflected gold and red off the new lake.
…Sometimes waking up is worse than the dream.