Delores took a long swallow of tea. It scalded her throat, but she didn’t care. Pain was her friend now, and physical pain at least gave her the feeling she was alive, that she still continued. The cicadas hummed, the sheep bleated to be out of their pens, the dogs barked, the world went on whirling, and Monty was dead. It didn’t seem possible that this day would arrive, and now that it had she felt — what?
His three judges, each face lit by two candle flames, are suspicious, and in and around them It seizes on that suspicion. It craves blood the color of their priestly robes.
He lies, the divine’s voice sounds inside his own skull, though it is not him speaking. The devil that dwells within him spits upon the one true God’s deliverance. He will destroy you. They will see the Holy Church to ash.
“Heresy! Heresy!” Words of fervor and hot spittle that teem like maggots in the divine’s beard.
And this pious man feels the power of a tyrant, terrifying and intoxicating and It pushing him closer towards the moth-to-flame lure of that feeling. When they haul Reimbauer towards the vaulted ceiling, a gothic mockery of ascension, spiked collar around his neck peeling the top layer of flesh with every spasmodic jerk of his head, red veined salmon pink beneath.
” – the chicken or maybe the chocolate. Could’ve been the chocolate. Wasn’t wrapped. That’s not a good sign. That’s never a good sign.”
Portman wondered how long she had been talking. He had given up responding to her conversations earlier in the evening, shortly before the sun had finished stretching long shadows across the highway like dirty taffy. It took too much effort to talk. Too much energy to respond. He sensed that China knew this, and felt maybe she was talking to him to keep herself awake. Sometimes he was thankful for her voice, and other times it was unbearable.
He took another weak sip of water. It felt like a dull knife jabbing him in the guts. But he was dehydrated. He needed more. He took a deep breath, raised the jug to his lips and poured it down his throat. When the water hit his stomach, it was like an explosion of glass. He fell to his side gasping for air, wheezing, trying to hold the water down. The thing in his stomach –
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Most days he could forget the symptoms when he got involved in his work; but the blemish on his neck preyed on his mind all morning, through the telephone calls, reports, and staff — staph? — meetings. At one point he thought about e-mailing his mother at the nursing school where she taught to describe the blemish to her. But then he thought better of the idea; even though she was used to it, he didn’t want to seem foolish if it was nothing but a pimple, after all.
Still, though. It preyed. Each time he thought about the spot, a cold stone would settle in his belly and tug at his heart, and he’d reach up, unthinking, to touch it. Was it warmer than the surrounding skin? Or was that just his imagination?
We are not a cult. Don’t allow any outsider to confuse you. We are a holy order. You’ll never be asked to give up your family or friends; not for our benefit. We only want you to stay pure. If they try to draw you into some distorted place, don’t listen. Your world is a thing of beauty.
Truth is not beauty. Only Beauty is real. How could it be otherwise?
And Myrriden watched, perched on the dresser. Jack saw him through the corner of his eye. A tall man, tall like Daddy, but his legs and arms weren’t right–long and thin, they reminded Jack of spiders.
Myrriden held a flute to his lips. White, bone white. A leg bone, Jack knew that. Little Boy Leg Bone. The soft music sounded like wind through dry leaves and the distant cry of dogs. It made Jack’s shins ache.
“You got beaten up a lot as a kid, didn’t you?”
That’s what Jerry Brower asked me, and the entire Central Carolina Writers’ Workshop burst into nervous laughter.
I looked up from the short sketch I’d been reading from and turned to face my questioner. Jerry Brower sat at the end of the table, down past a gauntlet of laughing faces. He, at least, wasn’t laughing, and for that I was silently, desperately grateful. I nodded to him, slowly.
He nodded back. The laughter stopped.
music by Instant Ambient (a side project of The Secret Life)
Jars line shelves like delicacies in a shop.
Hands clutch brown water.
Eyes and ears and tongues bob lazily in their containers.
Testicles lie shriveled against cold glass.
I have seen these things many times in many ways.