I wanted to play a little bit with POV this morning. Enjoy.
A dark brown universe becomes an atoll in a sea of candy cane stripes. You are jogging. Each step bobbles your jaw and claps your teeth together. There is blue and screams behind you. No clouds. No moon.
You jog on.
Your red flannel shirt is twisted and untucked. Your left sleeve is torn away from the elbow down. Your arms flop about your hips, dripping with red mud. Your wheezing sounds tight and far off. You try to lick your lips, but they stick; you knead them with your palm until the skin at the wrist fades to white and you pull your lips apart with a smack.
You jog on.
The same dark filth smears your face and forces us to see them; they are the brightest eyes we’ve seen in Faith County since the accident. They might be the last ones as well. Whether you know this or not—escaping down highway 92—you will soon find that the outskirts of town hold terrors deeper and more disabling than the sudden slaughter of your known world.
