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.
Garner – all bone and sinew, an easy smile and tired eyes – had leaned out his window (maybe just to get air) and then (all bone and sinew) caught momentary flight...
...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?
Leaves 