Estranged dreams left somewhere down old logging roads under a humid sun where burn lines run through the pines. To week and distant never making it past the youth who dreamt them. It’s where I left them with rattle snakes and old vodka bottles half buried in the dirt almost boiling in August. As thin as the heat that rises from tar pebble roads laid by men under the Eisenhower highway act of 1956. I out grew them or they died when I stopped believing in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. Fond memories of a twinty two and squirrels, catching cat fish at pond that said no fishing. Momma is calling time to go home.
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Cranial Origami
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Two Wrinkles In Time
It is pointless to run, my darling, because sixty seconds ago, I will kill you. My blade will have sliced reality open right in front of you. It will have first pierced it as it would a bed sheet left hanging to dry, flapping in the wind on a Sunday afternoon. But the metal will have drawn a line in the air that the ghostly tear will have followed. Then I, La Dyablès, machete firmly in hand, will have emerged from what your mind, at the time, could only interpret as the other side of here—whatever that means to you. I know. I have seen that look on the faces of countless unlucky… clients. You will not have been the first nor the last to try and reneg on a riches for soul contract only to present this visage to me when I come to collect.
By Lily Séjor4 days ago in Fiction
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