Advertisement
You revere your patron saints. Your Marys. Your Joans. Your Catherines. You should fear them. If one ever heeds your prayer, and she arrives stripped of skin, of fingernails, of every organ and every last fuck to give, her halo a boiling crown of furious yellow flames.
Two hours out of deadsleep is too soon to be staring at the butchered corpse of a dead god. Neel looks down as the kalipeeli begins its descent to Chowpatty Beach and feels his stomach flip. Even from a mile up, he can see it. His retinacam zooms, focus and enlarge a portion of the beach.
As children, we circled the crow chick that fell from its nest. Its wings were splayed heavenward like a saint’s, its brains streaked like veins of quartz across asphalt. Its neck arched back at a fossil-like, impossible angle. That was when I learned how fragile birds’ bones are.
An excerpt from the unfinished memoirs of Sullivan Kingsley. Text was dictated to and recorded by a Kvasir Scrivener™. Any poetic editorializing can be assumed in accordance with the spirit of Mr. Kingsley’s intentions, as interpreted by a conjured instance of the severed hand of Kvasir, Norse god of poetry, peacemaking, and beverage production.
When a human head hits a road at the right speed and the wrong angle, the asphalt will take off an ear like a belt sander. Dogs and bears and chimpanzees rip ears off during attacks. People rip off ears during attacks; in domestic disputes, drunken brawls, and reason-defying misadventures, people relieve each other of their ears like they’re tearing off stubborn pieces of bloomin’ onion.
I’m not telling you this to convince you of my innocence. The verdict has already been reached, the seal of my fate has been affixed. In about twenty-three minutes, I will be forcibly escorted to a certain maximum-security prison, where I will begin my life sentence without parole. Against my will. But in these final moments, an irresistible impulse compels me to present my perspective.
Gallam didn’t look at the clothes the family provided until he had already prepared the body. “Prepared” was putting it mildly: the man was covered in wounds—blade wounds? Bite wounds? Gouges, rips, punctures, slices. At first, Gallam wasn’t sure the corpse would actually hold together for burial.
You’ve only ever had one rule: never cross the stream that divides the wastes and the green land. That’s where the robots are, and the robots are our enemies.
The two children regarded Zekelo with solemn eyes. If they were intimidated by the twisting horns jutting from his head or his obsidian claws, they gave no sign of it. “Hello, young ones. Welcome to Zekelo’s Barterhouse & Emporium, the finest shop in all Limbo. Here, we offer phylacteries, nostrums, and rare antiquities from every plane of existence.”
Mother whispered to us about the beings on Earth she regretted creating; the ones whose only merits are their minds, but their minds rot so easily. They are not like you, children; they cannot see so clearly. We asked if the eyesight of humans is poor. Mother only chuckled. Her laughter now carries in the wind, wraps around our bodies—water in the clouds, flames in the lava.
Advertisement
Advertisement
Advertisement
Advertisement
Advertisement
Advertisement
Advertisement
