Subcity Radio and the Carnival of Spirits

Across the golden fields the noon brides glide, their bloody dresses waving in the summer breeze. Water nymphs with sharpened eyes peek from bog and fen, half hidden and tangled in lily pads and weeds. Butterflies, their fluttering caught in beams of light, tickle imps and gnomes; they yawn, and stretch, slipping off their toadstool beds.

Subcity Radio summons you to join the Carnival of Spirits at Exit on the twenty-ninth sun of the second moon. Each leap year, the membrane between-worlds grows thin enough for transit; only then can all spirits frolic hand-in-hand before returning to their realms. Descend into the darkness below and into the ancient wood where a lineup of minor deities bigger than ever before will bewitch your shoes to dance until the soles crumble off your feet and your spent body can revel no more.

Beware as the sun gives way to glowing flowers and the flicker of the fireflies and faeries, mingling with the smoke and stars above. A sickly fog descends upon the swamp; the spirits shrink in fear and wonder. An ancient power rises, older than the light, the lakes, and fields, something from a time when there was only darkness, the forest, and decay. The Mother of the Glade —antlers flashing in the pale light, her arms of barky, rotted wood outstretched— directs her sisterhood to collect the souls of those whose time here is up. But she is not just here on business— the spirits of the darkness leap and pant and sweat, stomping, spinning, salivating; they join the twisted debauchery.