The thing that watches keeps chewing the air. The sound of its voice is like the husky clatter of corn stalks in the late fall – hungry. Hungry and damned.
...the paper itself will come apart, will dis-integrate, will allow itself to let go of itself, each piece becoming a new entity apart from the whole.
He would sit there, with his tight frown, his pent-up bowels, his shoulders narrow again like a boy’s, his paper-thin skin shaking and he’d wait.
Would you beat Old Franky like a rented mule rather than just let Old Franky be Old Franky?
As a kid, I’d imagine green florets budding out from under the soft and torn fingernails...
As I got closer to the door, I thought less of the thing on the other side and more about the flow of light – the way it cascades like water in undulous, radiative motion. The way it comes, brilliant, from a source, and spreads like the rays of the Sun King’s crest – a halo of crespuscular rays.
