In the early morning, a day after one too many frosts, the end of the world. A skunk in the left lane, a deer in the brush, a feral hog on the shoulder, a zombie on the dotted line: none of which can be seen in this fog. There it is, hanging around, play after replay, around every corner, after every rotation of the joystick. I hear the damn things moving around me. I feel the mutant mucus; I hear it retching; I smell the thiols. I can’t see a damn thing.
So I sit down on this park bench and let the hammer horror vegetation grow over me. Thorns pierce my skin, or are they zombie canines, or antlers. I haven’t a clue. Call me Anne because I am resigned to my fate. It’s one of those alien bug moments, a swarm of bees on a southern plantation, a slumping telephone pole, a shack sinking into thawed permafrost. Saying a stranger’s name one too many times. Breaking bones in the chill.
More about: n. brennan
