Chosen Ones

Stirred by a dream, the high priest awoke one night from a deep slumber. He stumbled through the grand hall to the scrying chambers. Shouting and shaking the tables, he roused the acolytes from their cells. There, in their linen small clothes, they consulted the charts, cast stones, and sorted the scalded innards of a bleating lamb brought in from the cold.

The high priest compared each augury, each divination. There could be no doubt. On that night a god was born among the humans.

One week later, all the peoples of the kingdom gathered before the gates of the mighty palace. The king stood on a balcony infront of the great crowd and asked that the newborn god be brought before him that he might shower the child with blessings and wealth. He sent agents out among the people, searching for infants born the night of the priest's dream.

The next morning, three young women holding babies were escorted into the king's audience chamber. The whole of the royal honor guard stood along the wall in their crisp uniforms with gleaming sabers. Distinguished noblemen sat on velvet benches along the side along with doctors, philosophers, and scribes. Great taspetries of rich purple hung behind the silver throne. The king in his cloak of white fur with his queen standing at his right hand and the high priest at his left.

The first of the three women stepped forward. She was a very plain sort of woman with the pitted, heavy features of a hard life lived. Her dress was of the rough sort of sack-cloth used by the fisherfolk, where the salt water brings rot and ruin to all gentle things. Indeed, when she finally spoke, her speech and manners seemed as rough and bracing as the storm-tossed tide.

"To all these mighty lords and wise men do I bring my child. Here in this court do I give name to Razhaal, god of the sea!" and she held her tiny child aloft. The assembled elite squited into their spectacles and leaned forward to glimpse some hint of divinity there, swaddled in fish rags.

After a moment of awkward silence the queen, a woman with an uncommonly sharp mind, wondered aloud if perhaps the child wouldn't mind to demonstration of his godly powers. The people of the court turned toward the fisher-wife with expectant eyes.

She beamed and nodded. "Of course, if the gathered lords and ladies can bear the sight, the mighty Razhaal will perform a miracle this day!"

She took her child and held him upside down, letting the rags fall from his body, revealing the squirming pink flesh. "Watch him now call upon the mighty tides even here in this stoney castle," She held aloft a crude knife, but sharp and hooked to peel scales. With a quick snap, she slash open the child's throat. "Behold," she cried out, "The salt-tides lick the floors, washing away the sins of the world,"

The crowd gasped in horror as the woman shook and squeezed every drop from the infant who quickly grew blue and still. "Return now, clean, to your plantations and counting houses for Razhaal has blessed you this day,"

The guards quickly seized her and pulled her from the king's sight and down to the dungeons below.

The king was greatly affected by the death of the infant and almost waved away the other women. It was the priest who counseled him otherwise, "My liege," he spoke, "Let not this one crude beast spoil this moment. Indeed, she was low and cruel, with such vulgarity. How could a god choose to live among such filth? The other women have poise, beauty and bearing. Let them bring their children before us,"

The king could not refuse such wise words, and so with a gesture, the next woman stepped forward.

"My gracious liege," she knelt before them in her gown of ruffled silk, "and the most honorable assemblage, I am humbled to find myself in such a position, to be handed such a great honor to shepard this new life into the world, to serve as a vessel to deliver such a being as this into the world," and there did she turn to show her arms and the sleeping child nestled in them.

Again the queen mused about mothers and how each must believe each singular child is the most wonderful and special creation.

"Of course," said the woman in silk. She snuck a hand into her bodice to produce three small rocks hardly bigger than a man's curled thumb. She held them out to show the assembly. "You see, this child is already a miracle, conceived in a garden from the earth itself as I lay in the sun. I lay there last spring as the world poured up inside me filling me with such a magic that just this week passed a boy was born," She placed the child on the ground and smiled over him, "This boy, Otok of the Stones, god of earth and bounty. Behold him now as he enjoys his favorite snack. Even without teeth, he can crush stones and eat them like biscuits!"

And she pushed the stones into the boy's face one by one, jamming and shoving them. The guard rushed to pull her away, but she had already burst the boy's jaw and battered his skull with the last rock. The poor creature flopped mutely there on the floor for a moment longer, then lay still. The woman in silk was sent to the dungeon.

The king was upset indeed and stood to march out of the room himself. The third woman pleaded, "Wait, my lord, those women were mad. Come see my baby, come see her. She is the one you seek,"

The king stopped a moment by the door to listen.

The third woman continued, "She has no name, she is a song of light and fire. She holds the secrets of the serpent peoples. She knows the voice of the dark!"

The king watched the woman with her child.

"She is the god born among us and I can show you," she insisted, "I'll just need a bowl of hot coals and a razor,"

The king spit on the ground in disgust and stormed from the hall.

Annihilation Engine Seven, Part Three

I don't really understand how I know what I'm doing, or why I'm so calm. I'm mashed between two walls, but they're soft. They squeeze me gently, almost comforting like swaddling clothes or that time I crawled inside the old fold-out bed in the sofa. It was a secret place, and it felt safe despite the obvious fact that a grown-up might walk by at any time and decide to neaten up. They might fold up the bed, collapsing the legs and pushing it together. The steel frame would bow and slide inwards, slowly crushing me in my little hidden place. I might not say anything. I might let it happen. Those places were so impossible, so magical, that danger or death seemed very unlikely.

And here, in between again, the walls clench and slide me along. I can feel a ripple through the smooth walls, pushing me farther down. It's a natural sort of state, feeling that movement. I can bear the strangeness knowing I will not be here much longer. Knowing that I am moving is comfort enough.

It's dark and I can't really breathe, but none of this can be real, so I'm not very worried. How can a building eat me? What nutrients could it pull from my body? Like a marble swallowed by a child, I will pass cleanly through and drop with a clank against the bottom of the toilet.

With this simple clarity, I find myself deposited in a thin metal chair and my hands resting on a chipped glass table. I feel wind blowing across my neck, so I must be outside. It's probably safe to breathe again, but I'm savoring the air in my lungs, holding it in till the last possible moment.

"Are you alright?" someone asks me. The voice doesn't sound familiar. I should open my eyes. It must be safe now that I'm sitting somewhere outside. Nothing terrible has happened.

"Do you want some water?" that voice again, sounds like a man, and he sounds honestly concerned. I should start breathing again so he doesn't have to worry. I could have held it longer. I could hold it forever, just not now because I don't want this guy to worry.

I let my breath out in a rush and a cough. I reply, "No, I'm fine, thank you. What were we talking about?" as if I knew where I was and what was happening.

He's a thin man with very intelligent eyes. His curious little smile quirks up, "You wanted to know about my work,"

"Yes, it's fascinating," my hand raises to my lips and I'm surprised to find a lit cigarette. I don't smoke, yet I take a drag naturally, enjoying the warmth filling up, the flavor rolling over my mouth. "Please continue," I add.

"Well, the thing is, I never really thought they would work. It was one thing to see it on paper, another thing entirely to see it actually happen. Something like that shouldn't exist. It doesn't belong,"

The man's words circle around in my head. I'm nodding as if I know what he's talking about. I toss the cigarette onto the ground and crush it out. My hands dig naturally into my pockets for another. This is an old, automatic sort of motion. The sort of thing a perrson does after smoking for years. It occurs to me that I might not be in the right person. I hold up the pack of cigarettes and offer one to the man.

"Ah, no thanks," he shakes his head politely, though he's obviously tempted, "I'm afraid that's what gets me. Throat cancer,"

"What do you mean?"

"I've skipped to the end of the book. 1967, throat cancer. That's how I go,"

"Well it seems you've missed the mark. We're much farther along than that,"

He shifts in his chair and furrows his brow. He thinks for a pregnant moment, "Time works a little different when you're hooked up to the engine,"

"So when does 1967 happen to you?"

"Hard to say, really. Might have already happened. I'd have no way of knowing. That's how it feels anyway, it's all a part of the process. You have to step outside the engine in order to access it. You have to see how it's working,"

"Can you help me find my sister? She went running off again. She could hurt herself,"

"Your sister?" He seems startled. He stares at me carefully. "What is her name?"

"Laney. I already checked all her favorite spots. She could be anywhere,"

"I don't think I can help. I just make bombs, big ones,"

"You think maybe she's hooked up to the engine? Maybe time works different for her. Maybe she's in 1967,"

"Well then I certainly can't go after her," he chuckles. There's something he doesn't want to tell me. He's avoiding my gaze.

"Maybe you know how I can get started. Maybe you know someone I can talk to," I suggest.

"Yeah," he sighs. He's dissappointed in someone, but I can't tell if it's me or him, "Go talk to Chalk the Smith. Take my bike, it's just outside. It'll take you right to him,"

"Thanks," I said as I stood up. "You said you made bombs, right?"

"Yeah, never thought it would happen like it did, but yeah, bombs,"

"What sort?"

"The sort that blows up everything,"

"What do you mean everything?"

"Everything forever," he replied, looking down with no small amount of regret.

Annihilation Engine Seven, Part Two

I'm parked a few blocks away. I dig my hands in my pockets while I walk. I tend to rub my keys together as I go. I run my thumb over the teeth of the car key, reading the notches, the scratches. Laney and I used to collect keys.

We had a little fort in the woods made out of an abandoned chicken coop. Anytime we'd find a lost key lying around, we'd take it and hang it up in the coop. There was a big bag of tacks that Laney must have swiped from somewhere and we'd tack each new key up alongside the others. We used to make up stories about the keys, how they opened doors to the moon, or fell out of the pockets of gangsters, or some angel left them so ghosts could get into heaven later on, if they wanted.

This key just starts up my old Camry. It's real beat up, this old thing. It's like some kind of zombie, rolling along groaning and shuffling. It's fifteen years old in a state where cars don't last eight years before rusting out and collapsing. Sitting behind the wheel, I turn the key and the car shudders. I keep thinking about that old chicken coop. We must have had about a hundred keys all over those walls. Whenever one of us would close the door, all the keys would flutter around on their pegs. They looked like little, silver fish all swimming in a school, shivering on our wall.

I've got a few places I like to check first whenever I'm trying to track Laney down. There's a McDonald's across the street from the library, sometimes she hangs out in the parking lot. There's a bus stop near that Filene's in the strip mall. She never takes the bus, but likes to sit on that bench for some reason. There's the old cathedral with the over-grown lawn. I go to all of these places first. I really hope she's there. If I can find her and talk her back, then I won't have to go to the last place. I hate it there.

One way or another, she always winds up at the old brick armory. This crumbling, busted up, blister of a building squats along a drunken bend of the downtown sprawl. About a dozen traffic lights surround the oddly shaped structure, roads cut around it at all angles. This building sort of sprung up in the most inconvenient place, growing like an abscess, a city planner's nightmare.

I get this pain in my head just looking at the thing. I park my car around a corner and jog up to the front walk. A grey, cement walk runs down a few steps and through a hole cut into the middle of the building. It's a dreary sort of tunnel, unlit and perpetually damp. It leads to a long courtyard circled with a black metal catwalk leading up to all the different apartments. It looks like a huge, winding fire escape, tacked on as an after thought. Maybe they built all these different little rooms up three or four stories with no thought as to how exactly people would get up there. Just doors opening into a dead fall over the cracked cement and sprouting weeds of the damp grey courtyard. Standing in the middle of the whole thing, I could be in some Eastern Bloc housing designation.

Bean lives up on the third floor. He probably doesn't know where Laney is, but I have to check. I don't know how that fat piece of crap can make it up all these rickety goddamn stairs. He probably never leaves. He must have a dozen different burn-outs bringing him food or whatever. The railing's bent and twisted away by his door. It's rattling under my foot. Maybe he can't leave. One step and the whole thing might peel away, sending him twenty feet towards a quick splatter and a well-earned reception in hell.

It's dim inside and it smells like vinegar. The humidity makes me gag. It's so swampy the wallpaper's bubbling in pockets.

Bean, too lazy to complete sentences, calls out from his couch, "What you want?"

I don't even want to look at him. I reply from the doorway, "Bean, I'm looking for Laney. You seen her?"

"Oh I know what you're looking for," and I know he's smiling. I can hear his great, leathery jowls peeling back in that so-pleased-with-himself grin.

"Hey man, I don't want to fuck around. I gotta find my sister," I get this shiver down my back. The boards squeak under my feet. The whole building is moving to pin me down.

"You know what you want," his accusation is punctuated with a shudder of protest from the couch as his bulk shifts around. I can't see him, but I know he's rolling forward on his hands and knees.

"Bean, man, has Laney been here?"

"Uughh," he grunts as one hand slinks down under his elastic waistband jeans.

I feel a pain spinning around in my back, like a knife. Something's swimming around in my guts, pulling the viscera apart and rearranging it.

Bean digs around, curling his fingers around his wrinkled penis, pushing it through the zipper. "Uuuunnh," it touches the ground.

The walls are drooling syrup. The ceiling sags toward me. That noise again from the drug dealer, "Uuughnn," but maybe he's not making it with his mouth.

I push my hands through the floor and slide away between.

Annihilation Engine Seven, Part One

"That guy behind me, blue windbreaker, is he looking at me?"

"Nope,"

"Is he taking notes or anything. Does it look like he's listening?"

"No, he has a coffee. He's just standing over there," I tell her.

She glances over her shoulder for a hard second. When she turns back, she has that old, paranoid scowl. "He was taking notes. He stopped when I turned around," she says.

"He just has a coffee or something. He's probably waiting for a sandwich,"

She leans back in her chair and spins a coaster underneath her fingers on the table. She does that when she's pensive. Flip, flip, flip. Her hands look dirty; there must be a dozen kinds of shit caked into her cuticles. I already know the answer, but I ask the question anyway.

"So you're off your meds again?"

She glances up at me with her suspicious eyes like bitter slits. "I can't take them, Ed. It's not safe,"

This old thing again, this same old routine. She goes off, and the lizards are coming to get her again. She spends a few frantic weeks living in trash while I try to hunt her down and talk her back into her apartment.

"Laney, I know you're upset, but this is bad. You scare me when you're like this,"

"I know, but Ed..."

"And then we get you back home and clean you up..."

"Yeah, but Ed..."

"And you apologize to me. You say you're sorry and you promise..."

"Ed, something's wrong, please,"

"Laney, you keep telling me you're sorry. I get so scared driving all over town looking for you,"

"Ed, I don't think I can protect you anymore,"

"Laney, whenever you go off I pick up the newspaper every day expecting to find a picture of you all smashed up in a gutter,"

"I know. I'm sorry,"

Well, at least she's sorry right now. That means she doesn't think I'm working with the lizards. Every time she gets that far in her head, it makes things much worse. I'm the last soul on this earth that gives any kind of shit about her.

"Okay then, let's get you back home. Let's clean you up,"

"Ed," she's pinching her lips together, real tension. She's not going to come with me.

"Are you on anything? Did you go to Bean?" She knows a dealer downtown. I'm pretty sure she blows him for crank sometimes.

"Someone's been... Something's different with them," She's struggling to put her thoughts into words. Conversation starts to break down after a certain point, like she's trying to fit her square thoughts through her round mouth.

"Laney, let's get you back home safe,"

"Someone's leading them, Ed. You know what that means?"

"Please don't do this to me. Please," my words fall so useless out of my mouth. I just wish I could say something, do something, "Please. Please come with me, Laney,"

I hate how this always happens. I hate this. So goddamn pathetic.

"Someone's plugging in. Someone can drink it," she says. She's getting loud now. She gets like this, like a toddler throwing a tantrum. She's holding onto either side of the little cafe table like she might have to wrestle it away from me. Her elbows out, her knuckles white. Soon the little flecks of foamy spittle will form at the corners of her mouth.

Again, there's just nothing I can say here. There's nothing I can do. I just sit there while she stands up, kicking away her chair.

She's making some kind of angry growling. Her face is turning beet red. I can see the other coffee shop patrons shuffling away, wide-eyed. The barristas are probably calling the police.

"Are you hearing me? Someone made it down to the middle. All down to the center of the earth and drink. They've got a drink. ARE YOU LISTENING?" She's absolutely screaming at me, "THEY'VE GOT A KING!"

It's bad. It's always bad, but I'm still always looking for progress. I still keep hoping like an idiot. I try and finish my cappucino. I can't even look at her.

She takes a few wild swings at the bystanders. I should be stopping her, apologizing, holding her back. I should be explaining that my sister is not normally like this. I've got a whole speech down: chemical imbalance, not her fault, we're getting her real help this time, I'll pay for damages. I can't bring myself to speak a word of it.

"You fucking LIZARDS," she stomps around right in the middle of the cafe. People are streaming out of the place. There's one guy, must be a manager or something, trying to calm her down. I want to tell him not to bother, want to explain to him that there's nothing he could say. He doesn't know how far away she goes.

"YOU got drool... YOU DROOL DRINK," she's taking huge gulp-breaths, struggling for the words, "at the CENTER WITH THE... middle," she's even confusing herself.

And she's out the door. I don't even have to look, I can hear her canvas sneakers pumping away down the street. She's going full sprint, probably down the middle of the road.

Everyone in the cafe is staring at me. They're waiting for that speech. They want my explanation, my apologies, my promises. Fuck 'em, it's all lies. I get up and walk out. My jaw's all clenched up as I go through the door. I'm staring down at my feet. I feel like if I look up, then that'll be the exact moment I hear tires squeal and a big thunk. If I look up, I'll see my baby sister die.

God's waiting to kill her, waiting so that it happens while I'm watching. God is such a motherfucker.

The Knife or the Sea

“You are all now dead,” he bellowed over the wind and the ringing in our ears. “I have taken your lives. As such, they belong to me!”

We couldn't even see his face past the red, blinding, magnesium light of the flares. We could see the rifles, though. We could all see those clear enough.

“And so now you have a choice,” With the whole world rocking under our feet, he repeats, “You get to choose!” He was laughing in his breath, carefully enunciating. This was a practiced speech.

“Sink with your ship to your rightful graves,” He paused to let the idea sink into our heads, then said, “or serve me and my crew,”

Someone burst into tears, blubbering and falling over. I stood frozen, I stared ahead, trying to think, but my head was filled with mud. It was like one of those dreams where the monsters are coming and you can't run. Like your feet are so heavy and slow and your arms are too weak to open a door and those monsters keep coming.

“Go on! Jump in the ocean if you want!” he shouted, “Jump right in or come and kneel at my feet!”

We all just stood there. One of us was crying. Someone fired a shot. The crying turned into gasping, then a kind of panicked moan, then nothing. None of us moved.

“Right then, put them over!” he called to his men. We rushed forward, throwing ourselves down. The boiling fear and the cold will to live. Fight and flight. There were four of us kneeling. The others were pushed overboard.

I had my palms on the steel of the deck, squeezing my eyes shut. I remember trying to listen for the others, tried to hear them splashing around. Maybe if I could've heard them cry out, heard their last words, they might forgive me. I heard nothing but the ocean and the creaking metal under my hands. They touched the black waters underneath and ceased to be. Taken at once by the night and the sea.

“Four souls so eager to join up! Good lads!” he was so pleased with himself. His crew laughed along. This was the point in the speech where they were supposed to laugh; they obliged with tired chuckles.

“Thing is,” he continued, “we only need three. I expect you lot to sort things out,” He pulled a little knife from his belt and held it out to me. We looked at each other and I took the knife. It was tiny and dull and stank of fish. It was caked in fish gore and offal. A single scale stuck halfway down the blade. I took the knife from him and we all looked at each other. Why'd he give me that knife? Why me? I took the knife and used it. So help me God, I took that knife.

We were birds, once

She waits until he’s sleeping to go outside. She picks up groceries, maps, train tickets. She doesn’t take the bus anymore. She had some problems on the bus.

We were birds one day...

He’s still sleeping. She can feel him dreaming, turning over and over in her head. She’s at the cornerstore with a bag of batteries and some energy bars. This place doesn’t have any lotion. That sucks. It totally sucks. Her cheek will start to peel soon. This weather is too dry.

He let us fly with him. Exalted birds in His Grace...

It’s not so easy for a girl of sixteen years to travel around. There’s a knack to it, one that Robyn picked up awhile ago. She’s on the short side of short, perpetually slouching in her dark grey hoodies. A natural sort of camouflage if you don’t want to be noticed in a city.

For one day, we could fly...

There’s a couple of cops crossing their arms. There’s a man sitting on the curb, a trickle of blood smeared under his nose. One of the cops is holding him a bottle of water. They must be waiting for backup, or something. They’re blocking the whole sidewalk. No one’s trying to pass them. They step away, circling, pacing. When you grow up in a city, you learn to read cops like the weather.

We were birds...

She’s looking to cross the street. It’s a big one, four lanes. Four guys coming down the other way, a hot wind from the south. One’s shouting something. One curses. They look properly stupid, profoundly stupid. The cops take notice. A cold front gathering clouds. Now it’s becoming something, the cops can’t back down, the punks need to save face.

For one day, we were forgiven...

Shouting leads to shoving. Robyn tries to cross the street, but the traffic won’t let up. Everyone’s yelling. She can hear the smack of flesh, a fist. She’s watching the road, waiting for a break. She doesn’t want to see the fight. There’s s snap, too loud, too quick. Someone pulled a gun.

What was that?

She lunges into the traffic, leaping past the cars. They are honking horns, slamming on brakes. A hatchback catches her on the hip. She spins and collapses. Everyone’s shouting now, the bag of batteries all over the road. She’s got something up against her stomach. The driver of the hatchback is out of his car. He’s shouting at her, calling her a crazy bitch. She’s hugging something. It has sharp edges, but it’s like a box. What the hell is it?

Her head is quiet. She can’t hear anything in her head. He’s awake. Oh god. There’s screaming on the sidewalk. The cops are probably all dead. He hates guns. They’re all probably dead. She gets up and runs. Only a few more blocks. The guy from the hatchback grabs her arm.

‘What the fuck was that? You see that?’

‘Let go, let go of me,’

Her hoodie falls away. He can see the burn scars, the bald patches on her head. He lets go. She runs. She has to get far away, it’s the only way to keep him in her head. Her own boogeyman, her curse. She’s got to get to New York before anyone else dies. He’s watching her thoughts, waiting for an excuse.

She’s back in the apartment. She locks herself in the bathroom. She’s still got a couple thousand dollars from Colorado, most of the blood’s washed out. She hates this, living like this. Just till New York. This thing only goes as far as Gotham. The devil, the ifrit, the killer in her head. There the Badman dies.

Scribbled in a Bathroom Stall

We are not born, only dreamed
A cruel and bitter lie
A dream of love and loss and fear
And in that dreaming, die

Her Name Escapes Me

The girl can't be older than twenty-five. She's wearing a simple, white shirt and a flimsy blue sweater, unbuttoned. Her hair hangs loose and light. She tilts her head to keep it out of her eyes. She hovers over a big, thick book. Watch her flip the same page over. She's supposed to be reading there, in the diner. She's well settled in her booth with her coffee and a tiny plate of collected crumbs. She looks like she belongs in this diner. Perhaps the booth is reserved for exactly this sort of behavior. If she were to pack up and leave, within minutes another young woman would sweep in, throw her jacket across the seat opposite, lay her hat next to the salt shaker, and pull out a huge, old book to flip through idly.

But the girl does not leave. She had been sitting for hours, ordering just enough food to keep the manager from throwing her out. She'd picked apart a muffin twenty minutes ago. Watch her eyes scan a page. See her fingers run under the edge. She flips the page over. The action is purely mechanical. This is how a person reads a book. This is how a book is read. The words evaporate in her mind, the meaning of the page leaves her. She turns back to the previous page. There is something to decipher there, among those words, something evading her on that one specific page. Watch her eyes scan it again.

And now here is a man. He can't be younger than fifty. Wearing a plain, old suit. He wears it in just the way every man should, simply, naturally. He wears the suit like every man should, but no one does anymore. He is the only man in a suit in this whole diner. No one wears suits anymore, even though they should. Watch him move slowly down the aisle. A waitress is leading him to his own booth, but he moves slowly, falling behind. He does not want to sit where she places him. The waitress reminds him of a nurse in a hospital, the way she moves, efficient. She places a black, folded menu on the table of the booth where he is to sit. He smiles at her and she leaves him. He does not want to sit at that booth. He'll find another.

Watch him hover down the aisle. See how his hands touch each chair as he passes, like he is counting them. But he is not counting them, or perhaps, just not adding the numbers as he counts. One, one, one. Each chair, each booth, each table is singular like his footsteps. They add up to nowhere.

And then he sees the girl.

He does not speed up or slow down. This is important to remember. He sees the girl and knows that he will go and talk to her. He will tell her everything if he can, answer any question. He does not speed up or slow down because he knows that he is mistaken. Watch him now, smiling in a tired way. Watch him smooth his thinning hair. He knows that he is wrong.

Now he is interrupting her and excusing himself. She doesn't want to chat with anyone, but he caught her off guard. She invites him to sit. She curses her own politeness, all the manners her mother buried in her brain. She doesn't want to be so polite. She tries to smile, but she's not really listening. This works out just fine, because the man is talking, but not to her.

He tells a story. There was this girl, you see. This was all a long time ago, but he met a girl with an Egyptian name. She worked at this gallery, hanging pictures and paintings, dusting up, watching the register. Everything was painted white, and she'd wear black, but her eyes were blue. She had a way of talking like she was laughing.

'You remind me of her,' he tells the girl in the booth. She nods like she turns the page, mechanically. This is how a person listens to a story. This is how a story is listened to.

The man married the girl with the Egyptian name in the story. They lived together and things happened. Some things were scary, some heart warming, some tragic. This is a sad sort of story, it has to be. Watch the man talk to the girl. The way this story goes, it has to be sad.

The man asks about the book. The girl turns the cover to show him the title. Bullfinch's Mythology. She's reading about some king or something. He asks if she likes to read that sort of thing. She tells him that it's for a class. She is lying. Watch her lie about the book. She just grabbed the biggest thing on the shelf as she walked out the door. She doesn't want to go back anytime soon.

'And which one are you reading right now?' he asks her. He wants any topic, any excuse to stay away from the other booth, the place where he is supposed to sit.

The girl looks back at the page, the one she keeps reading. There was a king and he was very clever, but he made the gods mad. When he died, they made him roll a boulder up a hill over and over.

The man smiles, he's heard that one. The girl asks him about the girl with the Egyptian name. What happened to her? Where'd she go?

The waitress walks by. She wants to take his order. He asks for a few more minutes, a little more time. The waitress leaves, she doesn't really care either way. He watches her hips sway as she walks. There was a hallway in a hospital somewhere and a nurse pointing to a door. So casually she pointed to the bed where a woman was going to die. He never had a say. No one ever asked him anything.

On Thursday, We Died

On Monday, we were certain of it. Some things aren't too difficult to figure out, if you're honest with yourself. All the signs were there. It all seemed pretty cut and dried. I ordered a pizza. We didn't have any plates or napkins. We shared it on the bare floor of our apartment, drooping slices dripping greasy onto the sodden cardboard box. It was fun; we smiled to each other despite everything else.

We curled into each other, wrapped up in a dozen blankets. We slept like kittens.

On Tuesday, we sold the rest of the furniture. We didn't need the money, we just agreed it would be cleaner this way. We didn't want to leave any clutter. The thrift store took most of it. They didn't want the old lamp, the paintings from the bathroom, though they took the chipped porcelain butter dish. We found some old books and took them to the park. We lay around, letting the sun cook us slowly. We flipped through the books, skipping chapters, reading lines aloud, smelling the old paper.

I tried not to cry. I failed. You wouldn't look me in the eye.

We walked for hours that night. It got really cold, but we didn't want to go back. The street cleaners were out late, powerwashing the sidewalks. Slim metal wands fired beams of water, peeling gum off the tiles. Mist kicked up in a cloud where they worked, glowing green by the street lights and red by the crosswalk.

It was so late when we got back. We were exhausted, but we couldn't fall asleep. You complained about the blankets. You wished we hadn't sold the bed. I had nothing to say. We just laid there for hours. We must have fallen asleep at some point because I remember waking up.

On Wednesday I couldn't stand you. You were still asleep when I left. Maybe you were just faking. Maybe you were feeling the same thing. It was too early, nothing was open. I slid some change into a newspaper box and pulled out the morning edition. I flipped through a few pages.

All the headlines looked like jokes. One was about a couple of kids starting some fundraiser out of their garage. Another one talked about a local library closing down. Then there was this story about some senator fighting for a bill. He had some really snappy quotes about protecting our rights, safeguarding liberties, setting examples for future generations. He nailed it, he hit all the hot points.

That's what sells, I guess. Something's ending! Something new is about to happen! Look out! It's coming!

I got this idea to make a fire. I wanted to burn up all the trash in a big pile. A big ol' bonfire. I went back and got all the shit together. I took that lamp they didn't want, the pile of paper bags we never used, all the letters we stopped opening, and some other shit, I guess. I made a big pile in the parking lot. I didn't have any matches. I didn't want to ask anyone, so I just left it there.

When I went back inside, you were waiting. We didn't have anything to talk about. We weren't hungry at all.

An Idea of a Girl

She doesn't have a name. She doesn't really exist. She's an idea, or a collection of ideas, in my head. I can't really see her, but I have an awareness of her. When she's around, I know what she's doing. I can catch glimpses out of the corner of my eye. There's a leg, a hand. She darts across the hall, a shadow. She's behind me. She's breathing on my neck. I can feel the air change as she smiles. She haunts me like a ghost.

But I know she's not a ghost. This is something I have to keep clear in my head. She's just an idea, a figment. She doesn't have a name, but I call her the quicksilver woman. She's cold, metallic, and featureless. She changes faces to mock me, takes shapes to tease me, chases me, torments me, hates me.

I see her out in the world, in public. I might see a woman walking on the street and some part of the way her hair falls, the pace of her step, the tilt of her head, reminds me of that idea. I see the quicksilver in this woman. I see her taunting me from inside this innocent creature. Sometimes I have to turn my head, stare at the ground.

It's not something I can talk about. I know how crazy it sounds. I know it's unfair. I can be very careful. She keeps away, stays quiet, if I'm careful. Sometimes, if I'm having a conversation with a woman, I get carried away. I fall into her taunts. I get unreasonably angry. I snap, I sneer, and she wins. She laughs and leaves whenever I lose my cool. She must keep a tally somewhere.

I'm worried that someday I'll walk into a room and see her. She'll be there and I will see the whole of her. Maybe she's not really hiding or running. Maybe it's me looking away, avoiding her. Deep down I know I can't let myself see her without losing everything else.

Wouldn't be so bad if I didn't need her like I do. Maybe she wants to go. Maybe that's why she hates me.

Idle Sunday

And she walks in the kitchen
picking through the receipts
One, Two, garbage
She crumples them up
Flips through a nearby magazine
Always falls to the same page

How she leans
How she tucks her arm
How she looks at nothing in particular

A sniffle, a scratch
She opens up a cabinet
She doesn't want tea
But she's looking at the tea
She closes the cabinet
And remembers to throw out those receipts

How she moves
How she sweeps her arm
How the papers fall from her hand

She paces the length of the apartment
She opens the closet
Looking at her umbrellas
She remembers a song
And skips back to her computer

It's all so beautiful
I can't believe it
Or explain it

Temptation in the Mountain

"Hello," said the snake.

It was huge, the size of a man. It reared up on its belly. It scanned the cave casually, like a visitor impressed with the wallpaper.

"Hello," said the boy.

He could see the snake clearly, somehow, despite the darkness. The creature had foot-long fangs and a cold pair of beady eyes. Yet it seemed friendly enough.

"Are you here to kill me?" the boy's voice was light. He couldn't really care either way.

The snake chuckled, "I could ask the same of you. But no, I'm not. I mean, I'll kill you eventually, but not till you ask me very nicely," Snakes like their little jokes. The snakes voice rang like a little echo off the cave walls. The boy did not laugh. All was silent, then.

The snake licked his great fangs, "Have you thought about what you'd want to do with the world?"

"In what way?" the boy didn't really believe there was a giant snake here. Even if a snake could get so big, it certainly wouldn't chatter away. Something very strange was happening, but what else was the boy to do in the dark?

"Let's say the spirits bless you with a great power. Now you can change the world in any manner you please. What would you do?"

"I would take away the hunger and the sorrow,"

"Would you?" the serpent smirked, "And would the people thank you?"

"I don't know,"

"Without hunger or sorrow, would the people remember you? Would they sing your name? Would they care?," like some rodent-flesh caught between the teeth, the boy could smell rotting breath, "Would they hate you?"

Those cold eyes gleamed and that pink, forked tongue flicked through the stink of death. The boy trembled at the noise and shouted, "Go away! Go away!"

But there was no snake. There never was a snake. It was just the boy in the dark with all the rocks closing in.

Maybe the snake would come back if he asked nicely.

Tickle That Faggot!

"Yes! Yes! That noise, that laughter. That is the battlecry of the Holy Spirit. Show no mercy my brothers, my soldiers-in-christ,"

"Sir, can I have a word with you?"

"Of course, my child. Though I only have a few moments before I must make my rounds again,"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. It's just that I wanted to ask you about the operation here. Our purpose,"

"Glorious, isn't it? A life in service to the Lord. His will be done. Never slept better in all my long life, never felt cleaner,"

"Yes, about that..."

"I wake up every day and thank Him that He has entrusted me with such a duty, and has shown me the ways to bring His glory to earth,"

"By tickling the gays?"

"Invasive tickling! Regimented, prescribed like medicine! Laughter is a gift, soldier. It is a gift from God. What is more joyous, simple, innocent than the laughter of a child? Nothing, it's a rhetorical question. We force that innocence back into them. We subject them to it, force the light upon them, drive the devil out of their loins! The devil hates the sound of laughter, the joy of christ!"

"Yes sir. And that cures them? That sets them right with God, sir?"

"Well, it gives them a chance. That's all we mortals can do. We lock up the gays, strap 'em down tight, then tickle the devil out. After that, it's up to them to change, to see the light of christ, to resist temptations,"

"So some of them revert to their... sin,"

"Yes, well, the flesh is weak and all that. Sometimes though, sometimes we have a great success. A few of our ranks are converted gays. Once sinful, lustful creatures, now number among our most enthusiastic ticklers! A clear sign that we operate under God's rightful blessings,"

"Is it all that bad? I mean, we're supposed to not like the gay... gayness,"

"It's a sin!"

"Right, so shouldn't we do something more drastic? Something more scary?"

"Let me ask you something, soldier. Do you want to be tickled?"

"Not really, sir,"

"Maybe I'll sign you up. I'll clean out a cell for you. I'll find some of the big leather straps,"

"Wow, no thank you, sir,"

"We've got ridged rubber fronds, ostritch feathers. I can get some right now,"

"No, please sir. I really don't want that. Really,"

"See? Tickling is a threat, a deterrant. We are agents of mercy, soldier. Never forget that. This is a place of healing. We are here to save them, to bring the light of our Lord,"

"Yes, I see, sir. Thank you, sir,"

"Of course, always happy to help. Now, if you have no more questions, go tickle that faggot!"

"Yes, sir!"

Hiding Behind Lightning

There was a storm, that was very clear. Wind shaking the skin from bones. Rain like a thousand hands pressing down, pushing away. Perhaps it was the flash of lightning, the brightness, the whiteness. Maybe it cleaned out his brain. He stood and walked out into the storm. He opened his arms. Could any of this be real?

The rack of thunder, the fury of heaven. He cried out, "What!" interrogating the sky. He was in agony, there was some kind of pain. He was in pain from something that happened before the lightning and the flash. It's too easy to forget things in a storm.

He shook his fists at the sky, "The fuck do you want?" Somehow this was all God's fault, that prick.

"My Lord, a miracle,"

"Huh?"

There were voices behind him. A few men huddled in a simple fishing boat. They stared at him in fear and wonder.

"You're standing on water, Lord,"

He looked down at his feet, and so he was. Dark, storm-troubled waters swirled around his ankles and lapped at his legs. The water rocked and tossed, yet he stood solidly, as if on stone. It was cold, bone-chilling freezing. Why couldn't he feel it?

"How do you do that, Lord?"

"I don't know," he had to shout over the din.

A breeze blew the boat, sideways spinning. The men scrabbled for the oars and heaved themselves back closer to the man out on the water.

"Why then. Why did you do it, Lord?"

"I wasn't... really thinking,"

One of the men stood up in the boat, excited, "Yes of course! Our Lord speaks true. How are we to know our limits. In the light of God, all things are possible,"

The others grabbed for his sleeves, "Sit down, you'll tip us,"

"Faith, my friends, is all we mortals need. Faith in God's love to transform us," With sure steps he hopped over the side, "Let me be a vessel, Lord, for..." and plopped into the sea, vanishing in a white froth. His shocked cry lost in the whip of wind.

The men in the boat reached into the water, catching the rough cloth of the drowner's cloak. "Peter, you dumbass," one muttered as they hauled him in. He gasped and sputtered. The storm spun the boat farther and farther away. The one they called Lord stood and watched the sky, waiting.

The Treacherous Duke, Part Two

"Here then, without his robes, I could see his frail, tiny limbs. Without his crown and wig, could I see his thin hair, his spotted, wrinkled pate. Here then, in the shadows cast by candles, could I see his madness. His lips, dribbling, mumbling. His eyes rolling at invisible terrors. The rage fled from me like leaves blowing from the sudden gust of an opened door. I fell to my knees and cried, 'My Lord!'"

"And the king ceased his dribbling and mumbling to look at me. 'Why do you come to me like this, with such furor?'"

"Words found my mouth unbidden, and yet, in speaking I discovered their truth, 'My Lord, you have such enemies against you, conspiring in frantic secret, pledging treason against your house,'"

"and he replied, 'This I know, my duke, and have always known. Still they hide dagger-tongues and save only sweet words for my ears. I am lost already, defeated by shadows in a war without swords,'"

"'No, my liege, not lost yet. To your honor I pledge my service,'"

"'All dukes have already pledged such service, true and traitor alike,' the king's voice sweetened with despair,"

"'None have pledged such as this, my Lord. I pledge to throw myself into exile, to bear great humiliations by you, to suffer harsh indignity, so that every snake and beetle in your garden will think me an ally. They will flock to my banner, trusting their armies in my care to war against you. Then, my king, with all the traitors lined up at my command, will I lead them to defeat and deliver them to your mercy. The evil devoured from within,'"

"His tiny eyes widened, lips twitching. He crawled on hand and knee across his bedding, 'Would you bear this indignity? This torment?,'"

"'It is my will,' spoke I,"

"'But why?'"

"And truly, I was unsure myself until that very moment. I looked upon the king in his weakness and knew the truth. I loved this man. I loved him and would see his legacy continue. I knew I would serve him, his will, his empire until the end of all things. I knew this even as he balled his fists against his sheets and cried out, 'Oh but they will know our deception! They have seen you storm into my personal chambers. They witnessed your mighty rage. They gather even know with cupped ears just beyond the eaves. They will spread stories. Again, we are unraveled, defeated before we begin. Our ship sunk by whispers!'"

"'Not so!' said I, 'We will fill their tongues with new whispers, leaving no doubt as to my hatred, my lust for revenge,'"

"'What then, is your plan,' asked the king,"

"'Step down from your bed, sire, and with an air of your former strength strike me, drive me from these chambers. Let them remember the warrior king, the red flush of cheek, the blood-forged blade, the roar of the war drunk over the din of chaos. Knock me and shame me. Strip me before your court so that all enemies will have no doubt that I can only be your enemy,'"

"And he rose from his bed, towering above me. For a moment, I could see those old days and thought fondly on such old, clinging nightmares. The horror of battle, a cleaner, clearer time. To fight and win, living for the glory of a king, great and wise. A king to bring a lasting peace. Such sweetnes in dark, old memories,"

"He struck me with his cane. A stripe across the face and I tumbled through the doors. The courtiers fell away, so tightly had they packed against the doorway, hungry for gossip,"

"And the king struck again, chasing me, bellowing threats and insults. I spilled into the crowd, fleeing, pretending to stumble. Again and again, marked by the wooden length of his stick. He ordered my lands stripped, my titles, my houses,"

"And so, to exile I fled. Long I dwelt in poverty. Nameless in the wilderness, far from the glittering halls of my Lord's court. In time, one by one, the other dukes found me and made their ambitions known. One by one, they pledged their houses to raise a great army. A legion to crush the king and I was to lead as high marshall,"

"And so we marched in polished armor with bright banners raised high against the king and his host of fools. I sent these gleaming soldiers to fight farmers in rags. It took all of my great martial prowess to carefully arrange defeat for the treasonous legion,"

"After each battle, the fools surrounding the king would cry out, 'A miracle!' and the treacherous dukes would lament, 'We are cursed!' But only the king and I knew the truth,"

"And so the dukes were delivered to the king and peace restored. I was placed in a prison with all the others. One night, the king came to visit,"

"'When am I to be set free? My lands restored? My titles? My great reward?' I asked,"

"The king was silent. I felt a chill in my soul. After a great while, he spoke, 'I still have enemies, my friend, deeper still and darker still. They hide in my kingdom, plotting,'"

"'I understand, my king,'"

"'You are my sharpest weapon, my greates ally,'"

"'As you say, my lord,'"

"'And so I must ask you to continue this charade. You must dwell in exile, in darkness and shame. You must do this in my name, for peace in this great nation,'"

"'Of course, my liege,'"

"'I thank you, loyal duke, and yet these words are too small for my intent. Through your suffering and sacrifice, my kingdom prevails in light and truth. I owe you more than I could possibly give,'"

"'You honor me with such words, my king,'"

"'I must tell you, most noble duke, that I have deceived you. I knew the great forces arrayed against me even at the day of naming. No matter who I picked, even with you as my high marshall, there would be war. Even victory would spell disaster, as the kingdom itself would be torn apart. My throne would rule over a vast wasteland, and empire of dust. And so, with no better option, I acted like a great fool, confused drooling. Like an old drunk. I feared your capability, I wanted to drive you from your armies. I deceived you, and am sorry to have done it,'"

"I received his confession like the shock of cold, mountain water. I bowed my head, remaining silent. He left me then,"

"And so have I escaped again to exile, in the wilderness, in the darkness. The enemies still remember my strength, they still seek me out. They trust me with their armies and I deliver them in defeat to the king. They do not suspect my true purpose. They are liars, sinners, and thieves. In this, I am first among them,"

The man grew quiet again. The boy sat and thought carefully upon this mad story.

He spoke, "Why then, knowing the king's deceit, his false madness, would you continue to serve in exile?"

"I was tempted to defy him, to quit his service, or even lead these armies properly to victory. It was the way he spoke to me, the way he talked about his crumbling empire, the way he talked about me. The king worried at my power! This knowledge has sustained me, nourished me. It is how I know he is worthy of my love, and I am worthy of his," the man said, so proudly.

"He feigned madness once to trick you. Could he not have also feigned fear? Could this just be another trick?"

At these words, the man screamed in rage. He grabbed the boy by the shoulder and threw him from the darkness. He struck about him with his fists, driving him away until finally, again, the man was alone.

The Treacherous Duke, Part 1

Somewhere, there is a dark place. Perhaps it is a cell, deep in a forgotten dungeon. It might be a cabin deep in the heart of a silent forest, or a dead submarine, slowly sinking, slowly collapsing from the weight of the impossible ocean depth.

In this place, a man speaks to a boy. The boy has traveled far to hear the man's story. The man has waited a long time to tell it. The boy listens quietly, politely. He sits very still.

"I know this one story in my mind," begins the man.
"I can not see the faces, yet I know the people. I can not hear the words, but I know them as spoken. It lives in my memory like something I might have read in a book, or heard from a storyteller. Yet I also remember that it was true and that it happened to me. It was a long time ago, and truth can be like threads in an old shirt, falling out, falling apart over time. Who knows what's..."

The boy sits quietly. The man turns a few thoughts around in his mind. He sighs.

"There once was a great king. He ruled over a vast, troubled empire. He was wealthy, but very old. Many powerful dukes would come to his court to honor him. They were strong, powerful men with mighty armies and wealthy estates. In this, I was first among them. Above all the dukes, I was honored and feared. In my heart, I knew great pride and anger,"

"The king had ruled in peace for a long time. The memories of war grew distant to the dukes. They began to forget the blood, the agony, the horror of chaos. In the comfort of their private palaces, they remembered the old glories. Contempt blossomed in their hearts. And in this, I was first among them,"

"The king had many loyal followers still. A flock of grinning, japing idiots swarmed about the throne. They buzzed sugary lies and empty flattery in his ear. He delighted in the fools' nonsense. These pleasures drove needles of hate into the eyes of the dukes at court. They began to plot against the king. Again, in this, I was first among them,"

"There came a day of naming. The king was to deliver honors among the courtiers. All nobles of the empire gathered in the great hall, packed close together in their silken finery. It was a day of dreary formality. Scribes and pontiffs in official hats and stoles trapsing up and down the hall, droning away ancient verses. Blind words in the speech of slumbering spirits. Trumpets and drums. The king in his crown and grand cloak. He took his seat upon the throne. A hush through the crowd. A small, rolled scroll. A hundred burning eyes,"

The man stopped then, shifting in his seat. He licks his lips.

"It is dark now, and you cannot see. But I was strong once! My wealth earned in blood, my lands taken and held by mighty armies. My soldiers followed a warrior-prince born with a sword. So it seemed to me, despite any coldness at court, the king would have been a fool to spurn me in the naming. And yet, among the fools and flatterers, he named councillors. From the drunks, bishops. The thieves became governers. The cowards, his generals. And finally, his high marshall, exalted in privilege and responsibility over all nobles, second only to the king, he named the dog that patrolled the feast hall, licking fingers clean and lapping at the grease puddles,"

"How I raged in my own head. I pulled at my collar and tore at my hair while all the fools danced and cheered their grand fortune. The king, wearied in his advanced age, fled the great hall to retire to his bedchambers. In a great storm of passion, I trod across the hall after the king. With these arms, I tossed aside his guards like bundles of wheat. I threw open those doors and strode within. The king, already in his simple linens, sat up in a fright. I closed the doors behind and locked them. We were alone,"

June 24

I'm rolling in my bed
I can't breathe in this heat
You're under the sheets
I'm alone

My head itches
I can't find my hands
It's so dark
It must still be day

I can't see you
You're under the bed
You're hiding
From one little word

My neck is wet
And now, my pillow
The stink of pollen
You're under the floor

Like an ice cube
Cracks in water
I open my eyes
The fever is gone

Overwrought Analogy

So there's this party, but they're running low on drinks. So now everyone lines up, holding on to tiny, paper cups and stands patiently waiting their turn. It's really hot. The sun's out, beaming down. No one wants to leave the party so they all just stand there in the line.

I'm way toward the back. I honestly doubt they'll have anything let by the time I get up there. I wander out of the line and everyone's looking at me like I'm crazy. They don't say anything, though. Maybe they're hoping with one less guy, they might get two drinks.

So I get a chance to explore around a bit. Sure, I'm thirsty as hell, but maybe there's something else to do.

The house is beautiful. There's this big garden with all these flowers in bloom and bright green vines climbing up a trellis. I go back to the line to tell some people about it. They nod and smile. It's nice and all, but it's hot and they're thirsty. They don't want to risk their spot in the line. I can't really blame them, If I was closer to the counter, I wouldn't want to leave either.

So I wander away and check out the other side of the house. Holy Shit! There's a pool. I mean, it's not well kept or anything, but it's a pool. In fact, there's a layer of algae scum floating around the top, and the water is grey and murky. Still though, hot day, pool. I bend down and touch it. It feels cool.

Well damn, I got nothing better to do. I dip my whole head in. It's awesome. The water is all tingley like it's carbonated. I feel great. I pull my head out and use my shirt to towel my face. I have to go tell everyone.

So I run back and my hair is dripping all over the place. I'm telling them about the pool and how it's dirty and weird, but awesome. The mutter and shift their weight around nervously. They still don't want to leave, but a good head soak sounds like a good idea.

I'm begging and dancing around, trying to convince them. Finally we work out a system where a few people stay behind to watch the line. The rest write their names on their cups and place them on the ground, saving their spots.

So I lead a whole bunch of people to the other side of the house. When they see the pool, some of them laugh out loud, like it's a joke. But no, I'm serious. I really like it. I dive right in with all my clothes. It feels even better with my whole body in there. I fucking love this.

I swim to the surface to tell them. A clump of algae sticks to my face and dangles like a booger. I'm smiling and asking them to try it out, jump in. They look at my face and slowly inch away. They don't want to lose their place in line. They hurry back.

I swim for an hour or so, then clean up and head back to check on everyone. They don't see me at first. I over hear them talking.

"Can you believe that guy?"
"Yeah, what an asshole, trying to ruin the party,"
"He's just upset because he knew he wasn't going to get a drink. He wanted to ruin it for all of us,"
"God, what a creep,"
"Hey I bet he had his pants off in there. I bet he was going to grope people who went swimming,"
"He probably had his dick out,"
"What a pervert,"

A Little Tradition, Part Four

He stares down at his cards, then over to hers. She sits and smiles back. He counts the points again, running the numbers through his thick mind. He definately won. The room is very quiet.

Eventually she scoots her chair away from the table and walks over to the fridge. She pulls out a silver tray with an array of tiny jars.

"I have some mustards here, if you'd like them," she lays the tray on the table. She folds her hands against her waist. She doesn't exactly know how this sort of thing normally plays out. The beast places his cards on the table. He looks around the room in a daze.

A thought leaps to her mind, "Perhaps you want to take some home for later," She shuffles over to a cupboard.

"Here we go," she pulls out a small stack of plastic tubs with colorful lids. "If you want you could save some..."

He lunges from the table, cupping her skull in one palm and dashing it against the counter top. A single sickening crack from her neck and her body falls limp. His huge, corded arms twist and wrench the corpse. He tears her wrinkled, feeble arms from the socket. He flings it across the room. He tears the spotted, cotton dress from her skin and leaves it in a heap.

Her flesh is dry and stringey. He gnaws on one of her legs. He doesn't really chew or swallow, just biting over and over. The tang of her blood fills his mouth. He spits her out onto the floor.

Screaming, incoherent, he smashes his fists on the table. He spills the gruel on the floor. He throws the teapot against the wall. He tears at the walls and breaks all the windows. He tears up each of her stupid playing cards. He wrenches the door off the hinges and leaves it on the front step.

He walks out the door and down the street. Maybe somewhere else in the world there is another deep dark forest with a cave he can fill with bones. Maybe he'll never find it. Maybe the National Guard will surround him tanks and shoot him. Maybe he can die after all.

Either way, who the fuck cares.

The Black Out

"When you sleep, it's like you die,"
she smiles into the night
she likes the idea

"The brain shuts down the body,"
she's flirting, but not with me.
she remembers the hospital
and her body filling up with blood

"Then the brain shuts down itself,"
the doctors were going to send her home
a dozen tests and scans
they couldn't find the problem

"That's when you really start to dream,"
she was in so much pain
losing so much blood
delirious

"The brain goes crazy, off the charts,"
in her long, troubled life
she never felt more calm
than on that bed

A Little Tradition, Part Three

Every year after, she returned to the dark parts of the woods to play cards with the beast. Every year he would lose every game and bid reluctant farewell to the girl. For her part the girl did not stay a girl very long.

And so now, many years later, the girl has become an old woman with her own little house and a tidy garden around the back. She busies herself about the house, a pot of that same putrid gruel bubbling away on the range top. She lines up a plate of crackers, opens the shades to let some more light in, and straightens her table cloth. She sighs, stands back and looks over her kitchen. That was it, then. Everything done. She glances at the clock. He's running a bit late. That is quite unusual.

Just as she begins to worry, the doorbell rings. He stands in the doorway, still in his red work smock, sheepishly pulling a wooly hat from the tousled fur of his head. She opens the door and he smiles. She waves him in. He dips his head under the frame and enters.

They both sit for a little while before anything is said. She has a little, white, wire-frame chair for herself. He sits on a heavy, wooden stump dragged in from the garden.

She offers him a bowl of gruel, but he says he's not very hungry. She nibbles on a few crackers and begins to shuffle. He rubs his great claws together and waits patiently. His eyes keep rolling over the cupboards and lineoleum flooring. He's still not used to such modern household fixtures. He's been living in a small apartment downtown and isn't quite sure how to feel comfortable there. The landlord keeps yelling at him about the piles of mousebones.

She deals out a few hands. When he touches the card, his shoulders seem to dip, as if he can finally relax. A pleased expression floats over his face like a serene mist. He deftly flips the cards around his long claws. Even though he always loses, at least he's gotten better at holding the cards.

Which, by the way, showed a very respectable design of blue paisley. They tried playing with another deck of nudie cards years ago, for the sake of tradition. Both the girl and the monster felt uncomfortable, and it was never mentioned again.

"I'm hunting for an eight of spades," says the old woman.

"I have none," the monster grins and adds an enthusiastic, "Hunt the Jungle!"

The woman smiles and draws a card from the deck. She knew life hadn't been easy for him since the eviction. He called her up, all teary one morning. The city had rezoned the forest, tore the whole thing down. She helped him move and find a job downtown. He's been stocking groceries, third shift, at a supermarket. He's quite good at it, and the managers are fond of him, as they mostly just pay him in spoiled food and moldy bread.

He takes his turn, licking his fangs and flipping eagerly through his hand. She stands and starts a pot of tea. Over by the stove, the bubbling gruel smells just as terrible as the beast prefers, but if he's not going to have any... She plops a lid on top, blocking the heady fumes.

He lays down a pair, flashing his big, gleaming teeth. She nods and sits back down to check her own hand.

"I think I'm going to get you this time," he gloats.

"We'll see, won't we?"

"I've already scored many points. I think I will win,"

"I might have a great hand right here," she taps the cards with her fingers, "I might just be fooling you,"

The beast smirks at that. She had done that to him before, letting him crawl ahead just a bit before crushing him. Not this time, though, he was sure of it.

She returns to the stove to pour the tea. He draws another card from the pile and sorts it through his hand. She carries a tray to the table. She has little sugarcubes in a little saucer and everything. The monster doesn't like tea, but he loves sugarcubes.

She takes her turn, stumped again. He calls for a card, which she relents. He cheers and lays down a set of four.

"Oh look at you," she's quite impressed.

He chuckles, draws another card, and barks in triumph. Another set laid upon the table.

"Ok, your last turn," he bears his smirk again. He watches her cards, imagining what she might play.

She winks and lays her entire hand down. He gasps at the sight. She has nothing. Not a single pair.

After all these years, he's finally beaten her.

Orpheus

A drop of cold sweat on your tits
Copper and salt
And you just want to get to sleep

Once upon a time
A woman died on her wedding night
A man walked into hell to find her

You're pushing down on me
Heavy breathing
Just getting it over with

And this man went to the palace
With only a song to offer
And the king shed a steel tear

You roll over in darkness
Closing your eyes
You pretend to sleep

And the man lead his ghost of a wife
Back to the world
And she followed quietly

This night simply adequate
and it pleases you
It is enough

He could not wait. He turned to look
And her spirit fell away into darkness
She lingered long enough to say 'Goodbye'

You do not notice
When I slip out of the bed
And leave.

A Little Tradition, Part Two

They played all sorts of card games that night. The girl taught the monster how to play King's Corners, Crazy 8's, and Go Fish. The monster taught the girl how to play Hunt the Jungle, which was a special card game that monsters like to play. It was very similar to Go Fish, which the monster seemed to like a great deal. He acted a little upset when the girl knew so many games and he didn't, so it might've been very likely that he made up the game right there, but the girl didn't want to say anything.

They played for hours and had a lovely time. The girl won every single hand. She was very good, but more importantly, the beast was quite terrible. Still, he grinned and pawed throught he cards eagerly, slicing more than a few in half. By the end of the night, little chopped up pictures of naked ladies littered the floor of the cave.

"Well," sighed the beast, "I'm hungry now,"

She just beamed back at him with a pleasant smile.

"So, uhh," he continued, "I'm going to eat you,"

"But I won," she replied.

"Yeah," he agreed, "But I'm still going to eat you,"

"Well that's kind of silly," she insisted, "Think about it. A game is more fun when you play for something. I won, so I should go home,"

He shook his head, "Nope. I'm hungry and I've been looking forward to eating you. So that's going to happen," He growled and loomed over her.

"Sure," she nodded, not at all phased by his steaming breath and bubbling drool, "But how much tastier would I be after you won a game,"

He sat back, rattled by this interesting notion.

She continued, "Think about it: We're playing, it's a tough match, you lay down the winning hand, I cry out in defeat, you cheer in victory and gobble me up!"

His eyes bulged at the thought, "That sounds great,"

"And you would waste all of it if you ate me right now,"

He scratched his forehead at the thought. He wasn't used to thinking very far into the future, but the girl knew all sorts of fun games. She might be right about this.

"Okay," he said, picking up the few cards left, "Let's play again, I'm hungry,"

"Well I'm tired, so I'm going home to sleep,"

He slammed an angry fist on the table. She turned around with a frown.

"I'm too tired to play right now. But we'll play again this time next year. If you win, you can eat me," she said, simply.

"You'll come back?"

"I promise,"

A Little Tradition, Part One

She lets the leaves blow right in to her kitchen. There's a bit of a pile forming under the cupboard. The little, fresh, yellow and green ones mix in with the brittle, old, brown ones. She doesn't seem to mind. She has a visitor on the way and lot's to do before he comes.

Once upon a time, a little girl took the long way home from school. She was a terribly naughty girl. She talked back to her teachers. She played out in the forest till very late. She'd get mud all over her nicest dresses.

And that day she had mud all over her dress out in the dark part of the forest where she was not supposed to go. She had made a whole family of dolls from bits of rags and sticks lying around the woods. She conducted silly plays and dramas with her cast of twigs. She even sung along for all the musical parts. After rehearsing for many hours, she felt she had prepared quite a great show. She was sad that no one was nearby to write it all down. But the sun had set by then, and the dark part of the forest became especially dark. The little girl tried to run home.

She scrambled through the brush and the dry branches. She climbed between bushes and over fallen logs. The forest seemed strange indeed at night and the girl ecame very lost. She could hear the scratch and patter of animals crawling around, curious to see the naughty little girl out in the dark of the woods. The girl grew very frightened indeed and fell onto her bottom. She was so scared, she hardly noticed when a great, furry arm scooped her up and carried her away.

Deep in a slimy cave, torches flared to light. In the flickering orange glow, the girl could make out stacks of greasy bones in the corners and a great stone slab, like a table right in the middle. In the shadows just beyond the torchlight, moved a terrible beast. He might have been a huge bear or gorilla, but the skin of his face had been sliced away, leaving angry red muscle twiching over a pair of eyes, burning red with hunger. His long, clawed fingers held a bleached, human skull like a bowl. He slurped some kind of putrid gruel from the inside and licked the slime from his teeth.

He leaned in to hiss, "I'm going to eat you next, little girl,"

Somehow, the fear had passed out of the girl's head. She smiled right back, "It looks like you already have your dinner,"

He looked down at the gruel, "Oh this, it's just a snack," He tapped his finger against the bowl and thought for a few seconds, "I made it this morning before I knew I'd be eating you,"

She nodded helpfully.

"I didn't want it to go to waste," he added, "But I'll be hungry in just a moment and then I'll gobble you up!" He curled his lips around his fangs and leaned in to stare at the little girl as he said those last few words.

"Well, what will we do in the meantime?"

"Hmm?" the beast sat back on his haunches.

"Who knows how long it will take to be hungry again. I'd hate to get bored,"

The beast furrowed his brow, totally unprepared for this sort of behavior.

She quickly continued, "You must have something to do around here, a game to play?"

The beast turned his great, shaggy body and looked around. He picked a chunk of mouse out of his teeth with one long, bent claw. The girl folded her hands and waited patiently. The great creature grumbled and shifted his bulk to the other side.

"I've got some cards," he mumbled finally.

"Perfect!" she beamed at her captor.

He lurched forward and dug through one of the piles of bones. After a moment, he dragged out a back pack with bits of a backpacker still sticking to the straps. He dug through the contents till he found an old pack of playing cards.

The girl clapped and smiled. She dusted off a spot on the stone slab so they could play.

The beast held the cards reluctantly, "I really must apologize. These are the only cards I have and they're a bit..." he grumbly voice trailed away.

"Oh, I'm sure they'll do fine. They're just cards,"

"Well, they're kind of rude," he tried to explain.

She rolled her eyes and marched forward, plucking the pack from his claws. Each card in the set had pictures of naked ladies.

"This is nothing, I've seen where my cousins hide a whole, big box full of magazines with naked ladies,"

"Really?" The beast seemed very interested, "Do they hide it in the woods?" he asked, his rumbling voice filled with hope.

"No, they live in New Jersey,"

The beast nodded and sighed.

The girl shuffled the cards into neat piles on the stone. She cocked her head to one side and asked, "So what do you want to play?"

Crawling All Over, Part Two

The office is kinda standard, as far as offices go. Cheap desk, papers, letters. There's a shelf with all sorts of books that must impress certain kinds of people. Really, this place could be like a city office. Like maybe the fire marshall's assistant or commissioner for sewage or whatever. I don't know. But it's a priest's office. And he agreed to meet me right away. I think the doctor called ahead.

I don't normally like people talking about me behind my back, but maybe it's okay this time, because it's a doctor and a priest.

So he's got grey hair and he looks really skinny. He's wearing all black with that white collar thing. He's touching his fingertips together and asking me about my troubles. I'm pretty sure he already knows, but maybe he wants to hear it from me. I can appreciate that, I just wish he could cut the crap. But, of course, he's a priest so crap is his whole business, right?

I tell him about the spiders and my troubles sleeping and how I'm probably going to get fired. He's nodding his head and looking right at me. He's making these... these fucking noises like he understands my problems. He's like cooing at me. Cooing like I'm a fucking child. Maybe that shit gets the church-ladies all wet but...

Nah wait, he's trying to help. I have to stay calm. The lack of sleep is making everything kind of crazy in my head.

And he asks me about my faith. I should have expected that. Of course that's going to be his opener, it's his whole gimmick. I'm starting to regret coming down here.

But then, he's talking about stress in life and frustrations of responsibility. He's talking about family and things just start to sink in. Maybe that's how the church works, they have a really solid spiel, let me tell you. This little lecture must put a lot of asses in the pews. Maybe it might be nice to believe in all that stuff. Maybe if I was a different kind of person, I could get into it. Thing is, I was never really raised to believe in anything. I don't know if you can change that about a person.

No, this isn't going to work. This guy is barking up the wrong tree. I thank him for his time and I'm about to leave when the guy hops up and starts begging. I mean, he's really getting into it, slapping his desk, eyes tearing up. He's going all out. Says he wanted to baptize me, wash me in the blood of christ.

I can't help but laugh, really. He's taking this so seriously. I put a few eyedrops in and tell him no. So then he starts talking about my kid. Like I should sign up for his bullshit for their sake. Like I need Jesus to protect them from me.

Protect my kids from me. Can you believe that?

So yeah, I was mad. I grab him by the collar and shake him a little. He's really light, weighs nothing. I push him up against the wall and I'm shouting something. The whole time, he's chanting at me. I think it's in Latin. He's trying to get his cross out of his shirt and hold it up like this is some vampire movie.

I just... the whole thing got out of hand. The way he was looking at me and chanting, I just got so mad I put my hand on his throat. I want him to shut up, but what I'm really doing is choking the shit out of him. And it's easy too, like he's made out of balsa wood.

So his hands flail around and claw at my arms and I don't even fucking care. Fuck everything else, honestly. I'm already fucked. I'm starting to enjoy the thought of killing this smug asshole when he tears a hole in my arm.

It's weird. I look down and there's a hole in my arm. He punched through it, stabbing down with that cross in his hands and the skin falls away like paper. It didn't even hurt. I didn't feel a thing. Inside my arm, it's all dark and empty, like I've been hollowed out.

I feel that tickle again, the skittering on my skin and a thousand goddamn spiders come pouring out, covering the priest, stinging him. They can't be real spiders, though. They chew and chomp away at the priest. Soon, he's just a red lump of chewed up meat and those things crawl back into my body. It feels good, a comfort. I feel strong and whole.

Those things weren't crawling around on my skin, but under. Looking at what they did to the priest, they probably messed up my innards too. I might be more spider than man at this point. Somehow I don't mind. Somehow I feel pretty good about it.

Maybe I'll go take a nap and drive out for the visitation after all. I can't wait to see my ex. I hope she brings her lawyer along too.

I wish it were her

Dozing by the campfire
I could almost see her in the flames
A white knife, swallowed
And I wish it were her
Cutting me up from the inside

Someone passes me a beer
Someone tells a dirty joke
She's out of town for the week
And I wish it were her
Laughing next to me

A marshmallow falls in
And blackens on the embers
It smells like caramel
As it bubbles into ash
And so help me god
I wish it were her
Burning

Liar's Lament

she's angry at herself
for reasons I'll never be
able to properly appreciate
she's cute, but somewhere by her neck
I can smell the crazy
she's glancing and squinting
rooting out nefarious conspiracies
but when she's talking to me
the broken things line up
in neat little rows
like I'm validating something
like I'm a ticket to something
brighter
like I've got a direct line
to the fires that shape the universe

and she's cute and crazy
and laughs like I can help
so is that fair?
am I taking advantage?
I got plenty of snake oil

so why won't I tell her the truth?

Crawling All Over, Part One

Whenever I close my eyes, I can feel spiders crawling around. When I open them back up, there's nothing. I know it sounds crazy, but they feel like they're really there. I haven't actually seen them, because my eyes are always closed. There's no way they could just vanish or jump away. That kind of thing can't be real. I know it has to be crazy. I wouldn't even talk about it if it didn't bother me so much.

I went to a doctor and told him everything. He had this bullshit, patronizing look on his face. Like I was some fucking kid or something. Like I don't know I'm crazy. He gave me the business card of a shrink. I was hoping he'd just have some kind of pill right there. I went and picked up some eyedrops. It's so bad I don't even want to blink. My eyes are all red and scratchy.

I don't really know how it started, or when. I think it's been going on for awhile, maybe years. It used to not be so bad, just like an itch or a tickle. I'd have a tough time falling asleep, tossing and turning, but I'd go down eventually.

Maybe a week ago it got real bad. It was all of a sudden. I woke up from a dream, jumping off the bed trying to slap them off my arm. I remember thinking, 'Whoa, that dream felt so real,' but then I was in the shower, rinsing the shampoo, and nearly fell fucking over. Since then I can only fall asleep watching late night TV and getting really drunk. I've been calling in sick to work. I have to solve this thing soon or they'll fire me.

I just looked in the mirror. I'm supposed to see my kids this weekend, but I can't do it. I look like a junkie or a... maybe a murderer or whatever. I look like shit.

I gotta make some excuse. I'll feel like a complete prick and my ex-wife is just going to get smug over it. She'll be on the phone, smiling into the receiver, filling up my ear with all her self-righteous 'Your kids expect more from you even though I know better' routine. Whatever, I gotta do it. It's not like I could be honest with her. She'd jump right on the phone to her lawyer. She's always looking for any excuse to stop the visitations.

I root through my DVDs. Maybe there's a movie I haven't seen in awhile. I could try to watch that, maybe it'll help me forget. No, nothing. It's all shit. All bullshit.

I shout and knock some shit over. My place is already a mess. A bowl slides off the table. It didn't break, so I stomp on it. Crunchy chunks of white shit under my foot. I don't feel any better.

Maybe I do need some help. I dig that card out of my pocket. I read it over a few times. It's not for a shrink, it's for a priest.

Servant of the Flame, Part Two

We pull into the compound after the usual security check bullshit. Those boys at the gate are such a pain in the ass, but they do a good job. Tight security means you hire assholes and train them to be thorough. They have bomb sniffing dogs, and mirrors to check the wheel wells, and even a set of sensors that supposed to be able to see people hiding in your trunk. They always make us get out and dance around while they wave those goddamn sticks all over us. They check the prisoner too, though he's too fucked up to stand. They just drag him out into the dirt and pat him down. I warned that prick not to try anything, but guys like him never learn.

So now we're pulling into the motor pool. Some tech weenies swoop in to tune up the car. Some security goons swoop in to pick up the prisoner. My partner and I have a few minutes before the drop, so we go hit the cafeteria.

One thing they know how to do here is coffee. Because of all the circuitous logistics required to keep this place off the grid, we sometimes get our supplies from strange places. Last month they ran out of desserts and all they had were boxes of these weird mexican candies that tasted like salty hot sauce. But the coffee is amazing. One of the supply guys has a special hookup in Venezuela. We get this shit right off the mountains. It's the sort of thing God would drink if he ever came down to Earth. Or at least, if he ever found out about this place.

My partner picks up a whole tray of shit. He says he's starving, and I don't say anything. He brings his food back to the table and I just sip my coffee whole he tries to eat some stroganoff or whatever. He looks hungry, but all he can do is poke at that food. He stirs up the green beans. He prods the barley mash. It smells tasty but I know he won't be able to eat anything.

It's that noise. It's here now too. You hate it when you hear it, but when you leave the compound, you start to miss it. There's something comforting about getting your head rattled, like you don't have to think too hard. The noise keeps you up at night, and it often steals your appetite. A lot of people get really skinny here. They could turn this place into a fat camp, sell tickets, make a fortune. Not like they need money. Not like they don't own half the goddamn country already.

So my partner's pretending like he can still eat while I'm fully enjoying my coffee. I've never had a problem finishing a cup of this stuff. You could burning off my dick with a hot poker and I'd still be smiling and sipping this coffee. Our phones go off at the same time. Everything's ready upstairs. We leave our shit on the table and head up.

Our grim, tatooed buddy is wide awake now and screaming. The goons put him in a cage in the center of the big ritual room. They could just hit the button and make this happen, but the boys upstairs like all the pomp and circumstance of tradition. They've been killing people in here for around fifty years. You can't just throw that kind of history out the window.

There's a guy in a robe reading some grim sounding shit in Latin. I always find that funny. He's not even a priest or anything. Who's idea was it to recite shit in Latin? This whole company's probably sixty years old at the most. It's all a farce.

So there's the robe guy, two of those secuirty goons with long, cattle-prod things, a dude behind a console, the director, and me and my partner. We're all standing around in this big ass room with a reinforced cage bolted to the floor in the center where this piece of shit murderer is screaming his head off, making all kinds of threats. No one's worried about any of that shit. Once he sees the blue fire, it'll all be over.

The robe guy finishes and closes his book. The director nods to the console guy. The prisoner shuts up for a second to piss his pants. The console guy flips a switch and the bottom of the cage slides open.

The ritual room is situated directly over the engine. The cage shaft used to be part of a chimney the built originally. When they discovered that the blue fire didn't make any smoke, they bricked it up. When they discovered that they needed a way to drop bodies into the engine, they unbricked it and built this cage.

Now the trap door doesn't move all that quick, so the prisoner is now holding on to the bars of the cage like a monkey. He seems like a pretty strong guy, so he can probably hang there awhile. That's why those goons have the prods, in case the sacrifice just hangs in there like that fucking cat in the poster.

The murderer takes one look down, they always do, and it's over. The goons won't need the prods. There's a look that comes over the prisoner's face. It's tough to describe, but it's like a baby. Like suddenly this evil fucking fuck is suddenly turned into a happy, curious baby. He lets go of the bars and drops into the heart of the blue flame. The fire does something to a person's brain if he looks right into it. I don't know what it is and I don't want to know. I have to hear the noise it makes all day and night, and that's enough for me.

So the prisoner is gone and the console guy hits another switch. As the trap door closes, that rumbling sound is muted again and I realize I've been grinding my teeth. The director is already out the door. The goons are right behind him. My partner is heading to the bar to get fucked up. He invites me along but I decline. I can't stand to look at him right now. I can't stand fucking anything.

I go back to my goddamn bunk and push my pillow up against my ears so hard. I curl up in the corner and try not to think about that peaceful baby face and how much I'd like to be able to make it.

Chump

We lay on the bed that night
With all our clothes
And all our thoughts
in between us.
I turn away to face the wall
You mumble to me
You want something
But I know
It won't be enough
I want to go home
But I can't leave the room
I can't leave the bed
It took me years to think of the words
I wanted to say then,
"You make me feel like a chump,"

An Open Letter to a Girl at Panera

I feel a bit silly handing you this note, as if it were something passed to you during 7th grade Social Studies.

However, due to the specific circumstances under which we keep meeting, this seems the most effective and discrete method of communication. I hope you'll indulge me your patience as I try to explain myself:

A - I like going to that particular Panera. It is close to my apartment and provides a pleasant, daily escape from my work

B - I like you. You seem interesting and cute. I'd like to sit and chat to get to know you better, but...

C - The register line is a wholly inadequate place to do this. With hungry people waiting behind me and you coworkers listening on, I can't help but feel anxious when we talk.

So this is what I propose:

1 - I will give you my cell # (XXX) XXX-XXXX
2 - Use it or discard it at your discretion.
3 - Regardless of any meeting we do or do not have, I will greet you at work only with a kind of distracted, professional courtesy.

I really don't want to make Panera uncomfortable for either of us. Thank you for your understanding in this matter.

-Justin

Servant of the Flame, Part One

At the heart of the compound, the engine burns with blue fire. The whirring, grinding noises rattle the minds of the men in their quarters, trying to sleep. Many of them try earplugs or headphones. Nothing stops the noise of the engine. At night, they say, you can hear it in your bones.

It's been burning for decades. We don't know how to stop it, but we can slow it down and contain it. In the fortress, we caged the fire and learned to yoke it.

Our car pulls up and stops along a nondescript stretch of road. Too far from civilization for anything to be too well maintained. There's a patch of dirt where we always make the tranfer. Brown, scratchy weeds poke through the cracked asphalt, only to wither under the dry, Arizona heat. Seems like a waste trying to grow roots out in the middle of goddamn nowhere.

The bus is already waiting for us when we pull off the road. These things go like clockwork. The guards climb down out of the bus. I've seen them all before, though I don't know their names. It's a courtesy, really. They know enough about what's going on to know it's bad. And since we're always collecting, they must assume we're bad people. You don't want to get too friendly with bad people.

The guards lead the prisoner off the bus. We climb out of the car. One guard has a clipboard that he shows me. I flip through it. It lists the prisoner's information, criminal records, aliases, accomplices, family. He wants me to sign off on something, but I never sign anything. He puts away the clipboard and nods. All part of the routine. Clockwork.

The prisoner is a skinny looking thing, like cold gristle. He's got tattoos creeping down his arms and up his neck under the orange jumpsuit. The clipboard said he was a killer, but I could've guessed without looking. I spend enough time with killers.

This guy was all calm and careful till he got off the bus. He started sizing us up, likely imagining how he'd most like to kill each of us had he the chance. He didn't seem worried till he noticed the guards' faces.

The guards are fucking terrified of us. I love this part. They've all got pistols, and mace, and batons. One of them always has a shotgun, and yet they're scared of us, two guys in dark suits driving a company car. They're scared because they have no idea who we are or why they regularly hand over prisoners to us out in the middle of nowhere.

So now this animal is jerking his arms around and shouting. Even with the hand-and-ankle cuffs, he's still dangerous. The guards are shouting and struggling to hold him. They shove him up against the bus, but this guy won't quit. We just wait by the car for all the drama to die down.

The guy with the shotgun gives me a nervous glance. I nod. He walks over and smashes the butt of the weapon against the prisoner's face. I can hear that nose crack all the way over by the car. Blood is pouring like a garden hose from the murderer's face. That guard hit him really fucking hard. Fear can do crazy things to people.

After that it was easy enough to get him to cooperate. I brought some tranquilizers with me just in case, but we normally don't like to use them. It sometimes messes up the process.

We load the creep into the back of the car. He's getting blood all over the place, but that's okay too. The lab guys put some kind of special coat on the upholstery. You wouldn't believe the shit we have to clean out of there and it all just comes right off.

We fix his chains to a couple of special hooks at the bottom of his seat. He just sits there, playing hurt, but I can see those little eyes of his flicking around. The hooks look really fragile and he probably thinks he can just rip them right out and kill us. The real hard asses always try some shit like that. He's in for a motherfucking surprise when he does it.

The guards are already back on the bus. I can see the driver sweating behind the wheel. They can't wait for us to leave. Three guards, one driver, and a big-ass bus. They could have hauled forty prisoners out here, but they just took one. Whenever the order comes down, they only take one prisoner. And when things go like clockwork, they get big fat paychecks.

That's how things like this work. A little bit of money and a whole lot of fear. No one asks questions, everyone goes home happy.

Drinkey O' Drinkey

Lazy blonde curls, she's drawing loops around a currency of time hunched over the bar. She's a bolt from the blue with a tiny tattoo I can't quite make out on her arm. The men brush past and she snickers at their jokes, but cringes when our elbows accidently touch.

Like I'm supposed to apologize.

She looks like a lesbian, but she's not. That's supposed to be a compliment, but I know she won't take it that way so I shut my mouth. She dresses like she doesn't care. Not it'd matter what I think. It never matters what I think.

She says she believes in love and I can't say that I believe in anything.

You ever believe in anything? Looking back, can you honestly recommend it?

There's a little laugh and I see someone's propped their baby up on the bar. They tickle and giggle with it in between sips. I can't fucking take it anymore. I have to get up and run out of there. I have to go anywhere else.

But then, I'm thirsty. There's no beer outside, or back at my apartment, but there's beer here. So I stay and drink. And I order another. And another.

I don't know if I have enough money to cover the tab. I'm hurting so much I can't count.

For a Moment...

I held her all night, it was easy
The ground fell away as we slept
And I had no way of knowing
About the morning
And all the secrets she's kept

Old Romantic

In summertime, in sunny weather
On a remote, golden beach
My sins did gather together
To invite me to a feast

Pickled limes, fried legumes
With buttered pineal gland
No table, no plate, no spoon
The food thrown down in the sand

My hate picked up a fiddle
Hypocrisy began to clap
The rest danced and sang a little
Even though he played like crap

The main course was my lovely wife
They cut and pissed upon her
They offered me the biggest slice
For I was the guest of honor

With the dinner done, they'd had their fun
And almost nothing left of me
They left the food to rot in the sun
And laughing, led me to the sea

All the Sticky Bits

I've almost finished pulling all my pieces together
One was under the sink
One rolled behind the sofa
One was tucked into an old shoe
in a box in the attic
of the house that burned down
when I was just a boy
One was in my cereal
One was in my fist
One was stuck in my lover's eye
and blinking...blinking
blinked it free
One's still stuck on the ceiling
One can't move on with his life
no matter what he tells you
One still pretends to be happy
so you'll fucking hang up
I've almost got all of them rounded up
in a big pile on my bed
Now all I gotta do is stick them back together
All these broken bits