ass sway in her pink cotton-nylon blend uniform. She wields the coffee pot - a weapon against the dust-devil refugees washed up on her neon-lit shore.
Suddenly, I know there’s a motel two miles down the road. I know her name is Sally; there’s a run in her stockings that goes all the way up, and she isn’t wearing anything underneath. Palms sweat on the table; I lick lips gone dry. That bare ring finger shines like a beacon, and my cock stirs despite my best intentions.
Here’s the kicker: I’m a virgin. Pure as the fucking driven snow.
The son of the Fly-Lord doesn’t get the luxury of love, or even consensual, mutually pleasurable relations. Humans are potential breeding grounds, nothing more.
I think about fucking Sally on the ash-stained counter. She has two kids and can barely make the rent. She’s got more scars across her heart than she can count. I’ll slit her throat, plant maggots in the gash, and birth flies.
The Old Man grins. “That’zzzzz it.”
“No.”
Teeth grit, last ditch - my hand jerks, spilling salt. I sketch a sign in the scattered grains. It glows yellow in the sick light. Sally’s eyes widen and doesn’t she just see the ruins of Carcossa replacing the diner’s warmth?
The coffee pot shatters. I push past, scattering my crumpled bills as I hit the exit.
The night smells of a desert flower I can’t name.
The moon is low gold, grinning. I’m in the car, though I don’t remember opening the door. A whiff of gasoline. I’m already past the station, and the needle’s thrumming on full.
The night booms over me like a tide; I smell the sea.
Maybe it’s in my head, but I want to believe.
Static whispers on the radio. Sister sobs behind the electric hum. Flies buzz in her empty eyes.
“There’s a place where he used to make us go…”
I stick my head out the window, drinking air. The car swerves, but I’m alone on the road. I swear I hear surf crashing. Maybe the mojo in my briefcase is good for something after all.
What did fishmouth say? Something about dead dreaming, and a city rising from the sea, all dripping angles, all right stars and everything else wrong.
Pedal to the metal. Tires devour asphalt, humming, almost enough to drown the static.
Sister’s in the dark, where he made us go when we were bad.
And we were always bad.
Blood-tacky flies, crimson-drunk, hum in the close air. There’s a dead man hanging from the ceiling, swollen cock ringed with barbed wire. There’s a bloated horse, round as the fucking moon. There’s Daddy, and he’s sobbing. Sad. Mad. Bad. Look what we made him do.
I drive ‘til I see moonlight on water.
I screech to a halt; the powder-blue Caddy’s nearly burnt through. I grab the briefcase and run.
Sister always was the strong one. She never let Daddy break her. She broke herself first.
I’m almost to edge between sand and sea when the Old Man shambles up from the dark. His shadow buzzes, blurs.
“Fooled you,” he says.
I freeze. All this time I thought I was running, but I was going to, not from. Smoke and mirrors. Classic misdirection. It fools ninety percent of the people one hundred percent of the time when they want to believe. I wanted to believe.
The Old Man is stick thin, cancer-ravaged. But his teeth are still-wicked straight, his eyes sin-dark and gleaming. Another step and I see the thing behind him.
Sister.
Her dress is stained. One hand holds a sharp bit of glass. Her lips don’t smile, but her open throat does.
“A family reunion,” the Old Man says. “How sweet.”
A fit of coughing takes him. He spits phlegm on the sand, and it sizzles. The air smells like brimstone. It sounds like the shiver of wings.
“Whatcha got there, boy?” He points at the briefcase, wheezing.
Something in his eyes reminds me of the horse right before it was strung up from rusty chains. It reminds me of the drifter, smelling of sweat and cheap booze. He’s afraid.
The Old Man stretches out his hand. No blade glints
Suddenly, I know there’s a motel two miles down the road. I know her name is Sally; there’s a run in her stockings that goes all the way up, and she isn’t wearing anything underneath. Palms sweat on the table; I lick lips gone dry. That bare ring finger shines like a beacon, and my cock stirs despite my best intentions.
Here’s the kicker: I’m a virgin. Pure as the fucking driven snow.
The son of the Fly-Lord doesn’t get the luxury of love, or even consensual, mutually pleasurable relations. Humans are potential breeding grounds, nothing more.
I think about fucking Sally on the ash-stained counter. She has two kids and can barely make the rent. She’s got more scars across her heart than she can count. I’ll slit her throat, plant maggots in the gash, and birth flies.
The Old Man grins. “That’zzzzz it.”
“No.”
Teeth grit, last ditch - my hand jerks, spilling salt. I sketch a sign in the scattered grains. It glows yellow in the sick light. Sally’s eyes widen and doesn’t she just see the ruins of Carcossa replacing the diner’s warmth?
The coffee pot shatters. I push past, scattering my crumpled bills as I hit the exit.
The night smells of a desert flower I can’t name.
The moon is low gold, grinning. I’m in the car, though I don’t remember opening the door. A whiff of gasoline. I’m already past the station, and the needle’s thrumming on full.
The night booms over me like a tide; I smell the sea.
Maybe it’s in my head, but I want to believe.
Static whispers on the radio. Sister sobs behind the electric hum. Flies buzz in her empty eyes.
“There’s a place where he used to make us go…”
I stick my head out the window, drinking air. The car swerves, but I’m alone on the road. I swear I hear surf crashing. Maybe the mojo in my briefcase is good for something after all.
What did fishmouth say? Something about dead dreaming, and a city rising from the sea, all dripping angles, all right stars and everything else wrong.
Pedal to the metal. Tires devour asphalt, humming, almost enough to drown the static.
Sister’s in the dark, where he made us go when we were bad.
And we were always bad.
Blood-tacky flies, crimson-drunk, hum in the close air. There’s a dead man hanging from the ceiling, swollen cock ringed with barbed wire. There’s a bloated horse, round as the fucking moon. There’s Daddy, and he’s sobbing. Sad. Mad. Bad. Look what we made him do.
I drive ‘til I see moonlight on water.
I screech to a halt; the powder-blue Caddy’s nearly burnt through. I grab the briefcase and run.
Sister always was the strong one. She never let Daddy break her. She broke herself first.
I’m almost to edge between sand and sea when the Old Man shambles up from the dark. His shadow buzzes, blurs.
“Fooled you,” he says.
I freeze. All this time I thought I was running, but I was going to, not from. Smoke and mirrors. Classic misdirection. It fools ninety percent of the people one hundred percent of the time when they want to believe. I wanted to believe.
The Old Man is stick thin, cancer-ravaged. But his teeth are still-wicked straight, his eyes sin-dark and gleaming. Another step and I see the thing behind him.
Sister.
Her dress is stained. One hand holds a sharp bit of glass. Her lips don’t smile, but her open throat does.
“A family reunion,” the Old Man says. “How sweet.”
A fit of coughing takes him. He spits phlegm on the sand, and it sizzles. The air smells like brimstone. It sounds like the shiver of wings.
“Whatcha got there, boy?” He points at the briefcase, wheezing.
Something in his eyes reminds me of the horse right before it was strung up from rusty chains. It reminds me of the drifter, smelling of sweat and cheap booze. He’s afraid.
The Old Man stretches out his hand. No blade glints
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