Mounting the fixture to the top of the cliff, the dwellers stared out to the frozen sea, not realizing that the fixture had been affixed incorrectly and would not survive the small gale that was soon to un-entrench itself from the sky.

They were not of our village, they were of the other one, the one we refer to as Un-Village. They are all wild there, doing strange cliff-hanging dances to woo after the lusted-for ones. And they eat the young of the fish, which we know is very important to not do. And they feed their raggedy animals such morsels that should be left only for the tiny princes of our place.

Here, nobody sees us. Those of Un-Village know not of us. They are jammed so far inside their own head bulbs, always looking out to sea, putting up unusual structures for their ridiculous, blood-thirsty goddesses. We stay in our own special ghost shells, looking out through the eyeholes of our prettier, softer goddesses.

Jenni came from there. She said it was funny, living there. She said life is funny.