Friday, January 18, 2013


I could recount the history of every dive bar and seedy motel Nate and I have visited. Eidetic memory: another curse, if less eccentric than most that plague me, but in this case a blessing. I didn’t know what Nate’s violator was, but I knew the ritual to stop her – mostly. My mother died before completing the incantation. I’d have to wing the ending.

Just as soon as I removed Nate’s hands, oak-strong and insistent, from my throat. By sheer will, I transferred the first sigil onto his skin. He howled to wake the dead, and the gruesome bitch complied.


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