by Marie Marshall

From my longest short-story, The Last-but-one-Samurai:

“I believe that there is a barbarian land, where they have an annual festival in which they propel a large, heavy statue of one of their gods down a hillside. It is left to chance or fate where it careers. It strikes a rock, and either bounces aside down a new, destructive path, or dislodges the rock, which then tumbles with it in a terrifying avalanche. Onlookers marvel, and wonder when it is going to stop dead. Eventually it strikes a more solid obstacle, and its tumbling is arrested – the onlookers breathe again – but no! It teeters for a moment, as if making up its mind whether to settle back, and then plunges onwards, causing more and more destruction. What I am trying to say is that my story has been like this, and whatever I thought, as I lay my gear down amongst that of the forty-six, there was more insanity to come. The statue of the god was about to tip over again, and carry me down with it!”