HILLS: A 100-WORD FANTASY

The climber carefully inched his way toward the summit, a task made especially difficult by the smooth, almost glassy surface of the rounded hills, their slopes far more treacherous than they had appeared from a distance.

There was, he noted thankfully, no snow or ice to impede his progress. But snow, at least, would have been cold, refreshing. This stuff was hot to the touch, almost as though it had just emerged from a gigantic oven. Sweat poured from his forehead; he paused briefly to wipe it off.

Littered with blue-black boulders, the path ahead beckoned to Sir Edmund Challary.