Category : fiction

It was a ceremony of difference, a whispering campaign: Presidential candidate Roland Child, the Fool in Yellow, posted an arcane, anti-Semitic image yesterday morning, causing a terrible backlash and further confirming that his petty cabinet is made from insane, chained puppets, well beyond the usual boundaries of politics, and they all fled for the factories of fear, those ungainly misfits.

The image featured a picture of his rival, Mallory Castor, the Mistress of the Crows, dressed as a magician with a six-pointed star next to her face. She was offering up chaos and mud. He claimed she happened to betray him, and the star turned mainly from yellow to red. (more…)

I walk into a bookstore, looking for a cheap paperback. A pale woman with bright-blue eyes looks up and gives me a smile. Her hair is dyed purple and green; her clothes are all black. My heart swoons, though I haven’t even known her for a short while. But when that pale woman with bright-blue eyes looks up and gives me a smile, I forget all about the book I came in to find. My head swims, though I haven’t even known her for a short while. These are the times my heart overpowers my mind.

I dazedly forget all about the book I came in to find. Was it an epic fantasy or a dark murder mystery? These are the times my heart overpowers my mind. This is why I have such a messy love history. I just can’t remember if I was looking for an epic fantasy or a dark murder mystery when I originally walked into this bookstore, looking for a cheap paperback. This is why I have such an awkward love history. I’m a fool for women with dyed hair, dressed all in black.

I park my car at the end of the ragged, gravel road and step out into the thick, warm night. I have come to tell the weather’s green wind how the invisible hand that grasps the deep rotten fruit of the heart will exploit it. The heart is pure when filled with daylight, but at this time of night, I need to shout my words into my veins. Words about how age blasts the roots of the hanging man. but how the meager words of my clay mouth suck at expressing what’s in my head. (more…)

The sun comes up on a humdrum town.

Professor Curl rises early to work on his calculations. He makes a pot of strong coffee and a couple of slices of buttered toast, taking everything into his office. The coffee pot and mug go in the one empty spot on his desk, while the plate of toast is balanced precariously on a stack of books. He grabs a marker, stares at the whiteboards spread around the room, and…he does nothing. He shakes his head, but he can’t focus his thoughts. He pulls a small flask from the pocket of his bathrobe and empties it into his coffee. After downing one cup of what he calls Cuban coffee, he’s able to shake off the ghosts of his childhood and throw himself into his world of numbers and calculations. Familial abuse is a hell of a thing. Drinking rum on the sly is a hell of a thing. Professor Curl knows he has something of a problem, but the drink fuels his work, and his work fuels his life, so he accepts his drinking as a devil he’s made a bargain with out of necessity. (more…)