When he woke up, he found crop circles on his skin. Concentric circles linked to concentric circles by little squiggly lines and cryptic runes. Imprinted into his skin, raised like braille. They covered every inch of him. He made a living for himself as a marvel. Tested, prodded, fondled and petted – he was glorious because he was inexplicable.
it was on the twelfth night of her waiting that the night began to wait back
the air turned hot and flat and dirty, sending the train whistles shimmering across the plains
she untied the filthy apron strings clasped around her hips, dragged her rusty glasses down her nose
spat a little into her palm, flattened her wire-curled fringe into place
pushed open the screen door, let it sing out its high whine and scrape back behind her
and walked into the thick stale-custard dark