Moth Man

It’s a secret and slightly twisted other world.  Town, actually.  Oh, on first glance it looks normal enough: that’s part of its spell.  It’s like the optical illusion where all the apparently parallel lines aren’t or the waitress with a sticky-out Adam’s apple and hairy hands.  Bands of oriental triplets roamed the high street; geriatric mothers milled around outside bankrupt haberdasheries and none of the dogs had more than three legs.  Just when I thought it couldn’t get any more weird, I was attacked by an imaginary moth.  A great big thing it was.  It landed on my neck before fluttering upwards, horribly flapping its wings against my head and brushing them against my hair.  Horrible.  Horrible.  Horrible.  Except it wasn’t.  I just turned into a madman waving his hands above his head and swatting thin air.  Fitted right in.