mitch

The tripods were buried underground until the touchdown.  They lack women and brown people, soft bellied cave dwellers with see through skin, hair, gnash their teeth as translucent members swing with every step.  Perpetually clammy. Moist. They cared for these chrome geared machines. Tiny bronze canisters meticulously lubricate joints, smoothly rolling in place. Above, a thin stylus probes the orange sky. an instrument scraping at the hard cervical wall.  As lubrication drips into rolling crevices. A big eyed fish in the dark. Tribes of golem like men parade in dirty caverns, stagnantly wet.