counts

The shadows had it in for us, curling out from the more religious corners of a house that had a mind to creak but not to foretell or indicate, warn or presage. It made noises, sure, but the higher meanings came from without. The berries in the yard never fell but swelled, crustily infusing each other up on their perches, discouraging her pinching fingers. Likewise she’d intended to update the Constabulary Poets blog as a living testament to her waning career, a cached interface with followers asking to be replenished of the dolorous wit. She’d posted a few replies to their imploring emails. They knew this was the end—they thought it thin, disagreeing with her choice of content as almost exploitative. But the novelty of a public-personal correspondence, her fame extending dramatic council while the Alterity stage threw out echoes . . . it ate up the air of an empty theater; she baked and cursed . . .

Meanwhile the stage lights were snaked out and distributed to the multitude who toured the dirt roads blasting deer with vulgar illumination.