We climbed toward the peak after dark.
Something felt off.
A genuine miasma, as you’d describe it.
The poultry farms multiply unchecked
until they fill every inch of land.
The stink lingers.
We approached a waterfall in daylight.
Something felt off, even in the leisure area.
A real miasma—some say marvelous—as they watch the water descend,
dropping down to hazy lowlands.
The spray, fine particles in the air.
At night returns and we head home.
There is always something wrong.
A miasma. A pause. Something’s off, unspoken,
since we all keep up appearances.
Headlights carve through the fog on the road, then vanish.
Discontent, the women have bought too much again.
Discontent sits humid, a chorus of chirping.
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Adapted from Middle Slope by Lindsay Turner. Published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux in October 2026. Copyright © 2026 by Lindsay Turner. All rights reserved.
