It…she…it…it….she told me to stand…where it pointed….and ….Man, I don’t know why I fucking went over there man but I did and it…she…she pulled..my insides out…I felt ripped apart… like there was no coming back, I was dead and gone… Man, I didn’t even see a weapon, one second she was standing with her hands out, the next, I was screaming, I can’t…I can’t even go back there man….you can’t make me go back. I don’t know what happened to Ron, but fuck it man, fuck it.
I feel different, I can’t….really explain, it’s like I’m not allowed to know what’s happening…
…why are you looking at me like that man? …dude…DUDE! calm down! I’m not trying to HURT you! MAN!
CALM……DOWN!!!…….c…cal…calm down man…stop bleeding…..
She never had a face.
Where others had skin she had thoughts.
She was a maybe.
She tried, she tired of trying to become a face….one face.
She watched others…. she saw their moments all at once and tried to capture each one but just kept producing masks.
she tried to force herself to become……a person.
But….the fact that she couldnt never bothered her, she discarded her masks as fast as she created them.
She was a probably…..a maybe…a hasnt happened yet and a was never did.
And she never bothered.
As she put the old, time-stained kettle on the stove, her throat swelled shut & another wave of heat filled her where gills should have been.
She had dreams of being a fish.
She never cared to wonder where the dreams came from, they just did.
Like her husband.
The fishwoman never had a certain direction, and always ended up caught in a thick, rough straw net. It never bothered her, not even when they would filet her alive and leave her wet & bleeding life… rent upon their decks.
Nothing ever seemed to bother her, asleep or awake, she just kept swimming.
But her blood boiled & bubbled underneath the skin, causing bends where thoughts should have been.
I tried to follow her.
Well, no, I tried to catch up to her.
I first saw her in a downtown bar, but she wasn’t typical.
I was sitting in a corner…trying harder to look like a struggling writer in a bar than actually trying to write. I looked up to survey if anyone had noticed me, and instead I noticed her.
She had cold air hooked into her like a fog machine, and she ordered two shots of tequila, an american beer, and downed all three as if she was on stage at a talent show.
She paid in crumpled cash and rattled change, twisting and stomping out of the place like a bass note.
As soon as she left, I felt her absence choking me. I pushed my papers together, fumbled with my worn leather wallet, threw way more than enough money down and blundered after her…elephants chasing moths.
She was a mote in the distance, the tracks framing her perfectly in my memory.
I tried to catch up, but I knew there was no catching her.
You either ran on her time or not at all.
I wonder if she lives on those tracks….or if they’re only a way home.
They smelled the air carefully.
The scales had tipped and he had done it, he had finally done it.
They eyed him with curiosity and patience as he fell, gasping and retching against the brick of the alleyway. His arms still continued to thrum with energy, although now there was a dull ache forming in the wrist. Desperately scraping nail-and-skin against stone, he drags his screaming neurons further from the body laying in all manners of fluid behind him.
Shuddering & spasming, he turns the corner…never once aware of his surroundings. They pull him down to the ground like magnets on iron.
Wrapping long, slender, inhuman fingers around his body.
His skin is melting, blisterless, wet & putrid.
The night sky remains silent.