by Clayton Snyder
“The gods are dead, Trapper. Ain’t naught left but devils with the faces of men.”
Bharga stirred the embers of the fire with a long stick, the end charred and chipped to a point. Sparks swirled up into the night, and Trapper followed their ascent, burning fireflies spiraling in the dark. He watched them mix with the stars and wondered if it were true. If the corpses of immortals littered the heavens.
Bharga poked him with the stick, the heat of the tip pulling Trapper from his thoughts.