said that they try to leave enough traces in the world to suggest but not confirm their reality. I wonder if they will leave anything of me.
( For Richard Gavin )
Sanctuary
It was the third year after the Aeon of Cthulhu had begun. The second year after Nat’s wife had walked off into the sky, and three weeks since he had driven into Austin to raid a drugstore for anti-depressants and vitamins. It was noon; three years ago he would have been at Precision Tune scanning cars whose “Check Engine” light had come on. No, since it was noon, he would be walking across the street to Tacos Arrandas #3 with Willie, Juan, and Mike. The chicken flatuas with sour cream would be pretty good right now with a cerveza. Someone was crying in the Church, but someone was always crying. They would quiet down. Everyone sat upright at Santa Cruz during the day—unless they were praying. If they weren’t out growing vegetables, they stayed here. There were non-Catholics here—Mr. Jones, over there, with his black shiny face, he had been some sort of Baptist minister. The once fat blonde lady that taught science had been an atheist—what was that word they used in Mr. G’s class? I guess her hypothesis had proved wrong. There were gods; mainly they ate us.
Nat hated the Church except for Jesus. Jesus never looked too good growing up stuck on that damn cross, couldn’t help anybody, could he? He used to make stupid jokes with the cholos he hung out with—“Why can’t Jesus eat M&M’s? ’Cause they fall through the holes in his hands.” They would tell him that he was going to hell. Guess they were right about that. He still carried his baby-blue rosary from back in the day. It seemed like those from Below didn’t give a shit about colors.
He liked Jesus now. He didn’t understand why Jesus was white when the Virgen was Mexican. Don’t you know that had been a shocker to Joseph? The brown eyes were large and shocked with pain— we should’a known he was telling it was coming for years. We all look like that now. Jesus had caught up with the times or the times had caught up with Jesus. The crying had stopped and praying had started. Prayers were pretty free-form, mainly to Jesus or the Blessed Virgin, but occasionally someone worked in a call to Yog-Sothoth, as Keeper of the Gate—he was pretty popular. Maybe he would gate them all back. It was one of the few Names everybody knew. CNN had lasted for twenty-three days after the Rising. So everybody knew something. Even in Doublesign, Texas.
He thought of his youngest brother, Jesús. Jesús decided the thing to do was Get with the Program. He rented some horror DVDs from Blockbuster—he figured that he would get in good with the New Bosses. He studied the ritual sequences, the sacrifices. So he drove into Austin, found an occult shop, and bought some black candles, some chalk, a fancy knife, and a big chalice to pour blood into. Mama told him to have faith. It was a stupid argument. Had faith kept Cody from getting HIV? Had faith kept Esmeralda’s pickup from being hit by the eighteen-wheeler?
Jesús drove to the parking lot of Sam Houston High School that night. The moon was full and high, and it had not yet opened its Eye. He spray-painted two big circles, one inside the other. We all watched. It was better than listening to what was going on in Japan. You’d think after all them Godzilla movies they could have handled it. We hadn’t told Father Murphy; we wanted to see if Jesús was right. He lit five black candles in the shape of a star. Then he opened a used black paperback book that he had paid top-dollar for in Austin. He read some gibberish by flashlight.
Then he went to his old Chevy half-ton and took his red-nosed pits out. He had them tied up with bungee cords and they were squealing and barking. He dumped them in the center of his circle, put on his black graduation robe, and got the Chalice and Knife from the front of his truck. He carried an MP3 player
( For Richard Gavin )
Sanctuary
It was the third year after the Aeon of Cthulhu had begun. The second year after Nat’s wife had walked off into the sky, and three weeks since he had driven into Austin to raid a drugstore for anti-depressants and vitamins. It was noon; three years ago he would have been at Precision Tune scanning cars whose “Check Engine” light had come on. No, since it was noon, he would be walking across the street to Tacos Arrandas #3 with Willie, Juan, and Mike. The chicken flatuas with sour cream would be pretty good right now with a cerveza. Someone was crying in the Church, but someone was always crying. They would quiet down. Everyone sat upright at Santa Cruz during the day—unless they were praying. If they weren’t out growing vegetables, they stayed here. There were non-Catholics here—Mr. Jones, over there, with his black shiny face, he had been some sort of Baptist minister. The once fat blonde lady that taught science had been an atheist—what was that word they used in Mr. G’s class? I guess her hypothesis had proved wrong. There were gods; mainly they ate us.
Nat hated the Church except for Jesus. Jesus never looked too good growing up stuck on that damn cross, couldn’t help anybody, could he? He used to make stupid jokes with the cholos he hung out with—“Why can’t Jesus eat M&M’s? ’Cause they fall through the holes in his hands.” They would tell him that he was going to hell. Guess they were right about that. He still carried his baby-blue rosary from back in the day. It seemed like those from Below didn’t give a shit about colors.
He liked Jesus now. He didn’t understand why Jesus was white when the Virgen was Mexican. Don’t you know that had been a shocker to Joseph? The brown eyes were large and shocked with pain— we should’a known he was telling it was coming for years. We all look like that now. Jesus had caught up with the times or the times had caught up with Jesus. The crying had stopped and praying had started. Prayers were pretty free-form, mainly to Jesus or the Blessed Virgin, but occasionally someone worked in a call to Yog-Sothoth, as Keeper of the Gate—he was pretty popular. Maybe he would gate them all back. It was one of the few Names everybody knew. CNN had lasted for twenty-three days after the Rising. So everybody knew something. Even in Doublesign, Texas.
He thought of his youngest brother, Jesús. Jesús decided the thing to do was Get with the Program. He rented some horror DVDs from Blockbuster—he figured that he would get in good with the New Bosses. He studied the ritual sequences, the sacrifices. So he drove into Austin, found an occult shop, and bought some black candles, some chalk, a fancy knife, and a big chalice to pour blood into. Mama told him to have faith. It was a stupid argument. Had faith kept Cody from getting HIV? Had faith kept Esmeralda’s pickup from being hit by the eighteen-wheeler?
Jesús drove to the parking lot of Sam Houston High School that night. The moon was full and high, and it had not yet opened its Eye. He spray-painted two big circles, one inside the other. We all watched. It was better than listening to what was going on in Japan. You’d think after all them Godzilla movies they could have handled it. We hadn’t told Father Murphy; we wanted to see if Jesús was right. He lit five black candles in the shape of a star. Then he opened a used black paperback book that he had paid top-dollar for in Austin. He read some gibberish by flashlight.
Then he went to his old Chevy half-ton and took his red-nosed pits out. He had them tied up with bungee cords and they were squealing and barking. He dumped them in the center of his circle, put on his black graduation robe, and got the Chalice and Knife from the front of his truck. He carried an MP3 player
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