The leather boys came in waves, fluttering down from the sky in the form of massive paper airplanes, with white bone making a rigid fuselage and great sheets of sky leather making flapping wings above. They came each day to feed from the mustard pots, at least until we eradicated the vile things.

Each jar stood 40 feet tall, in a small crater of dirt and rock thrown up by their ballistic arrival from the sky. What goes into leather boy mustard? It seems less likely a product of ground seeds and vinegar and more something make of tortured souls and the twisting nether found in the void between the stars.

I charged forward, silently, striking at the body of a leather boy with my boomerang. Each blow sent waves of red pulsating outwards through its skeletal hull.

Behind me I heard the workers assembling a huge gantry. Twenty tons of grade A honey, loaded into great vats, would be poured on each pot of leather boy mustard. The subsequent exothermic reaction will throw up clouds of steam for days or weeks, carrying the unique screaming quality that unsettles all who hear it.

Two years from now, when we uncover the pots, nothing will be left but fine-grained sand.

NOTE

I’ve read a lot of Lovecraft and related authors, but nothing in the time just before having this dream.

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