e c l e c t i c a f i c t i o n
The Demon Lover
A large curve of glass stayed in my palm, in a neat and clever cut. I pulled it out and tossed it away, seeing the surprised flesh sliced open, then filled with blood. I stretched aside her pullover to lay bare her skin, and to her sharp cries entwined with that of the sea-gulls, bit slowly all around the hard nipple. I grasped the tear-drop shape of her breast. The blood flowed from my palm, over her ribs and across the deck.
This uncertainty gave me no peace. If I was going, I needed to know when. I wanted to be thinking the right thoughts, making peace with the world I would leave behind. Thinking that this might not happen caused my palms to sweat and my stomach to churn at the slightest hint of conflict. It was somehow very important to me to leave on good terms. I worried that I would die without being ready, and even more seriously, that my martial ideological moorings were weak, that the willingness that had been burned into me to sacrifice my life for a higher cause was a transparent hoax.
You know, Socrates, that reminds me of a story my father used to tell; it was a tale about a wee bit of a god who lived off at the far corner, at the very edge of the world.
No two of his ponies were ever very alike, but all were more like one another than they were like any other ponies anyone had ever carved before. They were a family of ponies, full of the DNA of his dreaming: a tribe of ponies, even an entire race of ponies, eventually, and they became dispersed, caught in a commercial eddy of the ceaseless diaspora that waits to carry all such groups to the ends of the world. Still, you would always recognize any of them, once you had seen even one.