(Excerpt from Worlds Last Imagined, novel in progress).

We saw them carrying life-sized dummies to the town square. It was eerie how each dummy so closely resembled the person who was carrying it. We watched as all the dummies were propped on wooden posts in the center of the square. A circle of stones laid on the ground formed a perimeter. The people stayed behind or outside the circle of stones. A man in a tall dark stovepipe hat, shouted—Commence.

The people commenced by lifting stones and hurling them at the dummies. One stone after the next, pelting the dummies. Over a P.A. system, the sounds of people in pain were broadcast. A series of ows, ughs, and aaahs, a chorus repeating on a loop, as the dummies were pelted.

Once every stone had been cast, the man in the stovepipe hat announced—Commence next.

A man came down from the gazebo, carrying a gasoline can, and proceeded to douse the dummies in gasoline. The stone-throwers, as if silently cued, moved forward, withdrawing packets of matches from their pockets, and each person struck a single match against the flint, an arsonist siege of match-flickers. Soon the dummies were engulfed in flames. A series of ooohs and aaaahs were played over the sound system. The fires raged and raged and eventually the gasman returned with a fire-hose and put out the inferno.

Commence third, the stovepipe hat man said, and the stone-throwing arsonists removed packets of seeds from their pockets and scattered the seeds over the charred remains. The blended melody of birds cheeping and chirping and whistling was played over the P.A.

Enough, stovepipe hat man declared, and the ceremony ended, with everyone going home and the seeded remains left to resurrect in due time.