Appalachian Galapagos by Ochse Weston & Whitman David

Author:Ochse, Weston & Whitman, David [Whitman, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror
Publisher: Crossroad Press & Macabre Ink Digital
Published: 2011-05-21T04:00:00+00:00

Two months later, an old fisherman was gazing down at the obscene decomposed head at the end of his hook, his eyes wide in a sea of wrinkled flesh.

"Look up Sam Weber and tell him we have a major fuckin' problem here," Lenny said, his voice wet and soggy.

The Smell of Leaves Burning In Winter

I saw him hassling the other customers of the coffee shop before he ever came to me. Like an Egyptian beggar, he leaned in with supplicated hands, his clothes frayed, skin coated with a mosaic of dust and grime. Try as he may, he wasn't able to persuade the patrons to pause drinking their coffee, staring at the gathering throngs of people outside the large window or picking Beignet crumbs from their clothes. The man was background for the larger show, nothing more.

My head throbbed from yesterday's Lundi Gras celebration. Along with thousands of others, I had danced and cheered as Zulu and Rex arrived marking the official start of the Lenten Carnivale. Like a middle-aged Rave, we gyrated and consumed as if the spirit of Pan himself was within us. It had been too easy to lose myself in the large crowd. Too easy to forget my own demons and become an appendage of a greater namelessness.

But now, I was paying the price. Lightning cascaded and thunder shook by bones as my hangover multiplied the actions of my overworked synapses.

My turn now, the beggar headed towards me. I stared deep into the chicory blackness of my coffee and willed him to turn away. I had my own problems and wasn't feeling very qualified to help others until I had solved my own. His shadow crept over the white of the tablecloth until the coffee and my two ringless hands were embraced in his darkness.

"Do you know the smell of leaves burning in winter?" he asked.

The aroma of hot chocolate with marshmallows—steam drifting upwards, the heat warming shivering hands.

The crispness of cold air.

The earthy aroma of an old man in black galoshes, faded denim dungarees, green cap tending a pile of leaves with a long rake—earth burning.

The stench of death, a temporary stillness of the living, until the white blanket is lifted.

"Yes," I said.

We both inhaled, the gasp slicing conversation. Me because of the sight of his haunted, pain-filled blue eyes; him because of my response.

A tear slid through the grime upon his face as he grunted and pulled out the chair across from me. I glanced around, now the center of attention. Eyebrows were raised, mouths turned down in disgust. As soon as eye contact was made, it was averted, as if I had become as unclean as this beggar.

"Finally," he whispered.

He kept his head down, but stared longingly at my coffee, the steam laddering up, the aroma of Louisiana thick in the haze. With the back of my hand, I pushed the cup and saucer across the table towards him.

I watched as he grasped the cup in trembling hands, brought it up and inhaled deeply.

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